


Every Green and Growing Thing

by callmelyss



Series: The Stranger That You Keep [6]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Character Fates, Angst, Awkward Boners, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Force Philosophizing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Light Side AU, M/M, Mild Cliffhanger, Overdramatic Skywalkers, Teenagers, That's Not How The Force Works, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-11-14 02:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Because that hasn’t stopped; he still wakes some nights to find Ben gone, wandered off into the forest or the deepest parts of the castle, drawn by unheard voices. The room always changes in his absence. Becomes too cold, too quiet, tooempty. Armitage can forget he’s not on a ship, that there are no engines or circulators or a hyperdrive to listen to, if Ben is there. When he isn’t, the hum of insects, the lap of water, the rustling of leaves are all too alien, too unfamiliar to lull him back to sleep. So he waits for him to return, for the sound of his breathing, the solid feeling of him beside him.The Commandant would call this sort of dependence weak, if he knew.—In the months they spend on Takodana, Ben reconnects with the Force and Armitage tries to find his way.





	1. Armitage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage tries to keep busy on Takodana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Armitage's adventures continue! This story picks up a few weeks after their meeting with Leia in "Not Any Mother's Son." If you'll recall, she's decided to allow the boys to stay on Takodana for the time being.
> 
> This fic (and the next one) will shift points of view from chapter to chapter and feature some voices we haven't heard from; it begins with Armitage. I will, of course, add new tags and chapter warnings as they become applicable. However, the rating on this fic will not go up.

Armitage doesn’t remember everything about the night he left the Academy. He remembers carrying his boots down the corridor, creeping silent, sock-footed across the durasteel; he remembers the muggy puff of the guard’s breath against his palm before he collapsed; he remembers the shuttle’s console flickering to life, its lights outshone by the tumult of stars through the viewport. He remembers the jump. 

He couldn’t have said then, if questioned, where he expected to end up, where he thought he was going. Probably to some Outer Rim frontier world, scratching out a crude existence in the dust. Staring out at the stars, all uncertainty, all the unfamiliar _next_ , he couldn’t have imagined the omnipresent smells of fresh water and rich earth and oxygenating plants. Couldn’t have dreamed up the feeling of the breeze on his cheek. Or the memory of a generous breakfast, the lingering taste of fresh tea, and the expectation, the near _guarantee_ of an equally liberal dinner, no every-cadet-for-themselves rush to the mess necessary. All of it as unlikely as the credits accumulating to his name or the warm bed he’ll crawl into at the end of the day. As impossible as the boy who has slept next to him every night these past months. 

No, he couldn’t have imagined any of this in that moment. Wouldn’t have believed in it, if he had.

Equally unlikely, perhaps, that he’d be wrist-deep in the interior wiring of a repurposed pit droid, but here he is now, too. He toggles the magnification on his goggles higher and peers at the exposed riot of colors. “Is it bad?” WAC-94 asks, apprehension somehow vibrating in their hollow voice. “It feels like it might be bad.”

“No, it’s not bad,” Armitage reassures them. He gently separates the affected cabling to examine it better. “Looks like you need a new cooling coil. The casing on this one is splitting. That’s why you’re overheating.”

“Oh, bolts.” The little droid, no more than a meter high—he has to kneel to work on them—shakes their head, dismayed. “That’s inconvenient.”

“Your crew’s eager to be on their way, huh?” He doesn’t know exactly what their shipmates do, only that they fly a boxy freighter with low, narrow service corridors, which makes a droid of WAC-94’s size a valuable asset.

“We’ve got a shipment to pick up on Naboo in two weeks.”

“Well, I wouldn’t leave it. You don’t want to fry your processors.” Armitage replaces the wiring in their chassis and straightens, pushing his goggles up into his hair. “It doesn’t have to be the specific part; I could alter a comparable cable for you, if you can find one around here.” Or he’s pretty sure he can. Repairs on the surviving fleet ships were always like that. _Approximate_. And they all learned how.

The droid brightens somewhat at this suggestion, their domed head tilting up to look at him, their single sensor whirring. “Oh, I’m sure one of the metalheads around here would barter for one. Now, what do I owe you for the check-up?”

He shrugs. “Say fifteen when I install the part, and we’ll call it even.” 

“You’re a decent sort for an organic, Red,” WAC-94 says and offers their hand. “Thank you for taking a look.”

He shakes it. “You’re welcome.”

They amble away, the particular churning motion of their servomotors inherent to their design. Armitage watches them go, then wipes his hands clean, replaces the few tools he needed. He didn’t intend to set up shop in Maz Kanata’s castle like this—but ME, the resident protocol droid and enforcer, asked him to recalibrate her stabilizers that first week, and after that word got out, and now he has a steady stream of customers. Mostly for little adjustments, the sorts of things that their crew could do if they bothered, except he gathers that most of them don’t. And some of the droids, like WAC-94, seem to _prefer_ coming to him, although he doesn’t know why.

“They like your manners,” a warm, now-familiar voice explains. Maz Kanata is smiling up at him in that wry, canny way of hers. “That’s why.”

Armitage frowns; even after all this time in Ben’s company, her unprompted insights unsettle him. Of course, Ben tries to stay out of his thoughts as much as possible while Maz does nothing of the kind. “Yes, ma’am,” is all he can think to say. He adds: “Is there something you needed me to do?”

That had been the agreement, when Han Solo suggested they spend some time on Takodana—or more accurately, that Ben spend some time on this world, given that Armitage is only here at his own insistence—that they help out around the castle in exchange for room and board. He’s done his best to do just that, from performing maintenance on the automixer to cheat-proofing the Dejarik tables, although there’s been rather less work than he expected. He devotes at least half his cycles to these odd jobs or reading or wandering the forests surrounding the fortress with Ben. It had been like that on the _Falcon_ , too, almost aimless at times, so unlike the Academy, and he couldn’t have expected that either when he pointed the stolen shuttle towards known space. 

Did anyone follow? He still isn't certain. They've been told _no, don't worry_ , but he remembers the look on Han Solo’s face the night Ben disappeared, the glance between him and Maz afterward. _Wary. Afraid_. Something they weren't saying.

Walking with him now, through the castle proper, Maz clears her throat. “I hear you ran updates on the synthesizers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And replaced the power converters on the robo-griddle.”

“Yes.”

“And repaired the cyclers in the conservators.”

“Yes, I did.” He had been rather proud of that; installing new parts or programming was one thing, but fixing a machine he’d never worked on before felt like a particular accomplishment. He hadn’t even had a manual at his disposal. But Maz is looking at him with her usual dry amusement and what might be exasperation. Perhaps he’d done it poorly? “Should I not have?”

She sighs through her nose and pats him on the arm. “Armitage, child, at this rate, my castle is going to be able to make a jump into hyperspace. Please go outside and get some fresh air before you start fixing things that don’t need fixing.”

“But we’re supposed to contribute—“ 

“ _Slowly_ ,” Maz explains. “As it is needed. This place is very old, you know. There’s no rush.” She rattles off something in her own language, as she does sometimes, unable or willing to translate. But he likes how the words sound, mellifluous, fluid, even if he doesn’t understand them. “Life moves differently on a planet. We don’t work ourselves into oblivion; we stop to breathe the air. Go on now. Find your Ben Solo. Don’t come back until you can describe the sunset to me.”

 

* * *

 

Finding Ben is, at least, less daunting than it was their first night here, when Armitage had woken, panicked, to an empty bed and the unshakeable sense something was _wrong_. (It had been, no matter what anyone says. How bloodless he had looked, how cold, how he had twitched and thrashed on the stone floor. And the tears streaming down his cheeks.) Not long after, Armitage gave Ben a tracker of his own devising—only a small, mid-range signal clipped to his belt, but it does its job. So long as he doesn’t leave the planet, it should always be possible to find him, no matter where the ghosts and the Force might lead him.

Because that hasn’t stopped; he still wakes some nights to find Ben gone, wandered off into the forest or the deepest parts of the castle, drawn by unheard voices. The room always changes in his absence. Becomes too cold, too quiet, too _empty_. Armitage can forget he’s not on a ship, that there are no engines or circulators or a hyperdrive to listen to, if Ben is there. When he isn’t, the hum of insects, the lap of water, the rustling of leaves are all too alien, too unfamiliar to lull him back to sleep. So he waits for him to return, for the sound of his breathing, the solid feeling of him beside him.

The Commandant would call this sort of dependence weak, if he knew. 

Ben hasn’t gone far today. Following the tracker’s signal, Armitage climbs one of the hills beyond the fortress and finds him meditating in a clearing, the sunlight settling amber on his dark hair, illuminating his upturned face, his expression peaceful. His chest rises and falls slowly under the homespun tunic. He’s been doing this more since they spoke with his mother, reaching out to the Force. Seeking—Armitage isn’t sure what precisely. Guidance, maybe. Answers. That question, persistent: _now what?_ He thinks he understands.

The stars. They’d seemed endless that night, like he could aim between them and go and go and no one would ever find him. He couldn’t have anticipated that the Galaxy might feel _small_. Like he can’t hide in it. Like they’ll find him eventually, whether they’re looking or not. He’s dreamed about it, being dragged in front of the Commandment’s desk, how his face, his eyes will look. How his voice will sound. And then.

Armitage shakes off the chill creeping along his skin and steps into the sunlight. It remains _novel_ , all of it, the heady perfume of the air here, scents he recognizes from the dreams Ben gave him, the ones clinging faintly to the collar of his shirt, his hair. They're his memories now, too, made here. He sinks, crossed-legged, into the grass, on the other side of the clearing from Ben, not wanting to disturb him. Spares an appreciative look for the scene around him, all blues and greens and golds, _alive_. He breathes it in, deep, through his nose. Then, he turns his attention to his datapad. It’s a newer model than the one Han Solo once lent him. He’d been able to buy it, in fact, from a trader passing through Maz’s castle. He has whole technical libraries downloaded to it, specs on every ship he’s ever heard of and plenty he hasn’t, always more to learn.

It’s still a luxury, reading in the middle of the day—and _outside_.

He’s following about the development of the TUG-b13 quadjumper when he feels it, a not-unknown sensation, like a giant hand cradling him, bracing him under his knees and his shoulders and bearing him up. It hadn’t been so gentle the first time; and he hadn’t expected it, in the dark corridors of the rickety freighter on which he’d stowed away, to be grabbed by a power he couldn’t see and held in place, unable to escape or fight his way free. Since then, he’s only experienced the Force as light touches, preventing him from falling or stumbling, cushioning him. Now it carries him, floating, across the clearing and deposits him at Ben’s side.

Safely returned to solid ground, Armitage snorts. “You could have just asked me to sit with you.”

“Quicker this way.” He doesn’t open his eyes, although the corner of his mouth quirks. “Is everything all right?” _Are we safe?_ he doesn’t ask.

He hums his assent, slipping his hand into Ben’s and squeezing it; he receives the same in return, automatic. “Fine. Maz ordered me out of the castle.”

“Oh yeah? Were you terrorizing the sabacc tables again?” And there’s no mistaking it—Ben Solo is _smirking_ at him _while meditating_.

Armitage jabs him with an elbow, aiming for his ribs. “That was one time.” He would have won that game, too, if the Ongidae hadn’t taken offense. “What are you doing?”

“Meditating.”

“I can see that,” he says. “What about?”

“It’s not really supposed to be _about_ something,” Ben says, with the sort of maddening obscurity he sometimes has when he talks about the Force, like Armitage is missing some crucial aspect of it, the central theory. “You do it for its own sake—to connect.”

He struggles not to roll his eyes; then, recalling Ben can’t see him anyway, does. “Oh, thank you, that clarifies everything,” he replies.

“I felt that.” He nudges him back and opens his eyes, smirk broadening into a full smile now, dazzling in the way his smiles are. “When I was at school, my uncle showed me, you know; it was a way to settle my thoughts. And not feel so—it helps,” he explains. “With all of this. Kind of how you do.”

So he’s said, that he finds his presence in the Force calming, even though Armitage can't grasp what Ben means by his _presence_ or why it should be at all comforting. Especially since he feels about as connected to this mysterious Force as a lump of plasteel or a bundle of cabling, but if it does, if it helps, if _he_ does, well, he doesn’t mind. _Can’t_ mind holding Ben’s hand or curling around him at night. And in any case, he finds it difficult to maintain even the slightest irritation when Ben is this close, close enough for him to see the flecked gold in his eyes. There is, too, how his wild hair curls over his brow, tickling Armitage's face when he leans in, and the way he bumps his nose with his own, affectionate, like he sometimes does in the morning when the two of them are lying inches apart. 

It’s still new: the way Ben cups his cheek, the flutter of his lashes, and the small, stuttered movement before he kisses him. That slight hesitation, always questioning. Occasionally, Armitage closes the gap for him, impatient, but today he waits, savoring the first soft brush of his lips, then firmer, more, giving in to something deeper, exploratory. So different from the hurried, aggressive kisses of his fellow cadets, how their teeth caught on his lips, how there was always too much tongue, grabbing hands. They’d never had time for anything more tender or patient than that, and wouldn’t have known how to ask for it regardless. They didn't think to ask at all. 

 _Ben_ asked; he keeps asking. Armitage can push away those other memories, thinking of that, that first kiss on the  _Falcon_. And all of them since then. The giddy feeling that swoops through him every time, frothy and bright.

He’s flushed and breathless when they finally separate, his skin tingling, mouth warm. They haven’t done anything much beyond this, kissing and touching, and that’s different, too, that lack of expectation, _demand_ for anything else. He had found ways 'round it before, been careful about who and what and where. Now, though, he doesn’t need to be careful. Can ask to be kissed, held. Whatever he wants.

Ben is studying his face; he brings up one hand to stroke his cheek. “All right?” 

Armitage nods, leaning into his caresses, some clutching feeling easing. “Do you miss it? School?” he asks after a pause. Ben hasn’t talked about it much, except to explain haltingly what went wrong, why he had to leave, the voice he heard from the Dark, the crush of that word, something much more than the mere absence of light. And some of what it means, now, that he can’t be a Jedi. “What was it like?”

“The Temple?” He raises his eyebrows, surprised. “It was.“ He frowns. “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“No?” He tilts his head. He likes the way Ben’s hand follows, uninterrupted, and how he brushes back his hair, badly in need of a trim, far outgrown its regulation cut, tucking it behind his ear. “Did you—did you like it there?” Trying to imagine that. Failing.

“Sometimes,” he allows. His expression darkens. “Sometimes I hated it; I wanted to be anywhere else. The other students didn’t always. Sometimes it was like at home, feeling like I was wrong, out of place.” He smiles, grateful, when Armitage reaches over to touch his arm, soothing. “But being there, understanding the Force—it. It made sense, all those other thoughts and feelings I always had. And learning how to manage it. Realizing I _could_. That was everything.”

“Would you go back?” He doesn’t really mean to ask, but it’s there, the question escaping, plaintive, soft, before he can bite it back. “If it were safe, I mean. Would you?“ 

Because Ben could; he could go. There are, Armitage knows, people waiting for him, his famous, important mother with her dark, grave eyes, and his father, Chewbacca, and the _Falcon,_ and this uncle, Luke, who he hasn’t seen since he left. But there are dozens of lives Ben Solo could live, if he chose, and no telling how many futures he’s glimpsed, how many dividing lines. When this ends—and surely it will, even if it doesn’t for him, for Armitage—those possibilities will be waiting for Ben, too, immense, boundless, the whole kriffing galaxy.

But he’s shaking his head, vehement, taking Armitage's hands, asking for his attention. “No, no, I can’t. That’s not how it works. And I. I wouldn’t.” He’s looking at him, earnest, always that, those expressive eyes meeting his. “Hey. I wouldn’t.”

“You could,” he insists. Feeling stubborn. _You could do whatever you wanted._

He shakes his head again, denying this, hair falling over his face. He’s worrying his lower lip when he asks, “Do you want to see it?”

Armitage blinks. “See it?” They’re under strict instructions not to go off-world, from both Senator Organa and Captain Solo, especially after the almost-trouble in the café. And he’d never been _chastised_ before—not punished, not that cold voice and extra duties and sometimes lashes, but instead confronted with worry and exasperation and _just_ _don’t do it again, okay, kid?_

“I could show you, I think. Or I could try.” Seeing his confusion, Ben elaborates: “Like at night sometimes? When you.“ And they’ve never really put words to it, the way Ben soothes his nightmares, the impressions he gives him, safety and the tickle of grass. He swallows, his throat bobbing. “Or when you shared your memories with me.”

That was the work of a long afternoon, and they had both been pale and shaking by the end of it, unable to do much more than cling to each other. He doesn’t think he wants to experience that feeling again any time soon, wrung out and empty, yes, but also scraped raw, exposed, blood beading to the surface.

Ben squeezes his hands, reassuring. “It wouldn’t be exactly like that. It shouldn’t _hurt_ or anything. But if you don’t want to, we don’t have—”

“I want to,” Armitage interrupts. Deciding this now. “If you can show me, I’d like to see it.” 

He nods, then looks at him, meeting his gaze, and nods again. “Right. Okay. Here.” He shifts so that they’re facing each other, knee to knee, still holding hands. “Close your eyes.” 

He does, and they sit quietly for a moment, just breathing. The sunlight falls warm on his skin; the grass shivers, stirred by the air; Ben’s hands are firm but gentle around his. Then, that first skirting touch along his thoughts, not intrusive, and with it, the sound of water, the smell of new leaves, the now-familiar solace of those sensations, _safe_ and _good_ and _calm_ that has so often shooed away his worst dreams. More than that underneath, an uncertainty he recognizes and a frizzle of energy, mercurial, volatile, and the bite of ozone, but they’re distant right now, carefully held at a remove. All of it: _Ben_. 

 _Hi,_ he feels. Not his voice, precisely, more like a ripple of thought, although it sounds like him.

The afternoon Armitage shared his memories, a question had followed, a _may I?_ and it had been like leading him down a corridor, opening different doors for him, showing him, deliberate, and answering his questions, stopping, now and then, for both their sakes. He hadn’t thought it would be like that, more asking, letting him pick and choose. He assumed Ben would take what he needed, pluck the information from his mind—although he had been willing to do that, too, to give it all up. 

This, however, is the opposite. Ben’s guiding _him_ , drawing him away from his own thoughts, from that field of stars through the viewport and _now what_ , taking them both deeper into those impressions, a hillside and an unfamiliar moon. They’re sitting around a campfire, a cluster of young sentients, all kinds of species, and a bearded man in plain robes, a gravelly voice. _Uncle Luke_ , Ben supplies. He himself is sitting away from the others, partly in the shadows, hearing the words being spoken, the stories being told, but not quite listening. There’s someone else whispering—

The scene _shifts_ and it’s midday day, and the two of them are walking alone together, Luke and Ben, and Ben’s voice is rising, high, cracking with frustration. “But that doesn’t make _sense,_ ” he’s saying. “If the Jedi could help, why didn’t they?” Luke’s hand ( _the flesh and blood one_ ) closes on his shoulder.

“The Jedi made mistakes, too,” he tells him gently. 

That feeling, Luke’s hand on his shoulder, comforting, steadying, persists as the hill blurs again, but now Ben’s younger, smaller, and there are tears running down his cheeks, snot dripping from his nose. The outline of a familiar freighter rises above them, then blasts away, growing smaller in the distance before it disappears into the blue sky, and _they’re leaving him here, they don’t want him, they never did, he couldn’t be good enough, no matter how _hard_ he tried, so they_—

Armitage tightens his grip on Ben’s hands, _It’s okay, I understand, it’s okay_ rebounding between them, as it always seems to be, like a grav-ball, and they step away from the memory together. 

 _Thanks_ , Ben says. Adds: _It wasn’t all like that_.

Images and impressions flick by faster, as though swiped through on a datapad, an abundance of them. The whole group of students meditates in the temple together, the perfect ease and quiet of that, _harmony_ chiming, resonant, through the Force, the web of that connection. In stark, immediate contrast, the children run through the grass, shrieking, delighted, Ben among them, picking up one of the smallest, _Eida_ , and spinning her around while she laughs. Then: Ben sitting in his room, enjoying the solitude, a calligraphy brush in his hand; assembling his lightsaber, smooth, without impediment, on the first try and Luke looking on, clearly proud; levitating the stones in the serenity garden with his fellow padawans and rearranging them; feeling that _control_ for the first time, reaching out to the Force instead of the galaxy pouring in; sweeping the Temple without having to hold the broom; greeting his father when he came to visit. He and the other students splash into the water, a rare free day to simply enjoy themselves, no lessons except that, and they dive into the sea, under the waves.

 _Swimming_ , Armitage identifies. Although he never has.

“You haven’t?” Ben asks aloud, surprised, dropping the link and his hands abruptly. Both of them sway slightly at the break. “Sorry.” He grabs Armitage’s arm to steady him. “But you’ve never gone _swimming_?”

He shakes his head, nonchalant. He understands by now that Ben’s not mocking him with these sorts of questions. “I was born on Arkanis, but that was right before the bombardment. I don’t remember it,” he explains. He had only been an infant when the Commandant took him. They never spoke of it; he didn’t dare ask about the woman who was his mother. There wasn’t anything in his Academy records either. “And not many opportunities on a Star Destroyer,” he points out mildly.

“Well.” Ben stands, brushing loose blades of grass from his trousers, and offers him a hand. “We’re definitely going to have to fix that.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so,” Armitage says, hesitating. “You just?”

Ben touches the small of his back, where his t-shirt is sticking to him, and encourages him forward. “Yeah.”

They’re standing on the sandy shore of the lake together, looking out at the sparkling expanse of blue, Maz’s fortress at their backs. He’s been curious about it since they arrived on the planet. Has never seen this much water before. The planets the fleet lingered over were always spare, desolate, dry. But in the time they’ve been here, it hasn’t occurred to him to do this: leave his boots and socks and datapad on the shore, roll his jumpsuit to the knee, and walk into the water. It’s cooler than he thought it would be, although not _cold_ , and the sand gives, soft, under his feet.

In rapid succession, Armitage thinks of everything he’s ever heard about planets, how dangerous they are, how disorderly, everything that could harm him here, hidden predators out in the unfathomable water, the odds of that. He takes another step into the lake. The waves lap gently over his feet, then his ankles, across his bare shins, to his knees. He can’t account for the easy feeling that washes through him, some intersection of this new sensation and Ben’s hand on his back and knowing again that he never would have, never _could_ have imagined this.

A splash catches him across the front, and he startles. Ben hasn’t moved from his spot next to him, so—

“Did you do that with the Force?” Armitage demands, affronted.

“No.” He grins.

“Liar.” He kicks some water back at him, but it falls short or else collides with an invisible wall. “That’s _cheating_.” Another flick of water hits him. He yelps in outrage.

“I thought I was supposed to use every advantage,” Ben intones, teasing, mimicking his accent, echoing one of their early conversations over the Dejarik table. “I thought victory was the only real objective.” 

Armitage shoves him lightly, barely moving him. And he can, he can ignore the directive to look for vulnerabilities, to _win_. That isn't the point of this. “That’s not funny. And your Coruscanti accent is _appalling_. Aren’t you meant to be from the Core?”

“Better than your Alderaanian. Or your Shyriiwook, for that matter.”

He glares at him from under his dripping hair. “My Shyriiwook is _improving_ , _aoacrawhor rooohu, rarccwoacooanwo_.”

“Well, like Uncle Chewie always says, nowhere to go but up.”

They continue to tussle in the shallows, their shouts and laughs ringing out, louder than he can ever remember being. Ben mostly avoids his hands and elbows, Armitage rapidly growing more adept at dodging the jets of water being flung at him. He even manages to splash Ben across the face, dousing his long hair, both of them soaked in no time. And that’s _before_ he miscalculates, overbalances, and ends up going headfirst into the lake, knocking Ben over with him, both of them tumbling off of the sandbar and into deeper water.

Being submerged doesn’t frighten him like he thought it might, although it is a surprise, the shock of cold and the green-dark and the peculiar taste of the lake—clean, almost metallic—before his feet find the bottom, and he breaks the surface again, spluttering. Ben pops up next to him a moment later, looking alarmed.

“Kriff! Are you all right?” he asks, unusually frantic, as he reaches for Armitage. 

He laughs. “I’m fine.” He splashes him lightly again before he allows him to cradle his face, his neck, and check him over. Armitage leans into those careful touches; he swipes at the water dripping off the end of his nose. Then, he grabs Ben by the ears and kisses him.

He makes a muffled, startled sound, but he doesn’t pull away, not from the unexpected kiss, not when Armitage presses against him and curls both arms around his neck, drawing the two of them closer together. He murmurs encouragement when Ben lets his lips part slightly. Bites softly at that full bottom lip, liking the way he shivers, his quiet groan, how he grabs him by the waist. Not minding the water or the silt between his toes or how his clothes are drenched and heavy. Or the chill, not when he’s holding onto something so warm.

Eventually, though, Ben does break the embrace, abruptly moving back a step, putting some space between them. “Er, Armie,” he says, hushed and red-faced.

“What’s the matter?” Armitage frowns, tilting his head, before he understands, the way he’s leaning away from him, his expression not unlike the one when he scrambles out of the bed on some mornings. “ _Oh_. Sorry.”

He drags a hand through his hair, still blushing. “It’s okay. Just. Yeah.”   

“So, is this it? Swimming?” He kicks back into the water, lifting his feet, trying to propel himself backward, churning his arms and legs. 

Ben laughs. “More or less. Floating’s a little easier without all this.” He plucks at the sleeve of his own shirt, then blushes again. “Not that—“

Armitage nods his comprehension, sparing him. He considers the drag of his own clothing. “Or, at least, a lighter fabric. Maybe synthcloth,” he says, as academically as he can.

“So it's a design problem?” Ben asks. Teasing again.

He sniffs. “ _Most_ problems are design problems. Or bad math.”

“Bad math,” he repeats. His face grows thoughtful, the cant of his mouth suddenly serious, brow puckering. 

The shuttle’s computer had calculated the jump to hyperspace, taking Armitage, although he hadn’t realized it yet, towards this, towards this lake on Takodana, although by way of two other ships and a battered YT-1300 light freighter. “There’s good math, too, you know,” he murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. “Sometimes.”

They make their way to the shore not long after, both of them dripping. Ben peels his wet shirt off over his head and wrings it out, showing the smooth, untouched planes of his back, broadening shoulders and lean muscle. Armitage hunches in his own wet shirt, settling for twisting the water out of the hem, careful not to reveal the thin, pale stripes along his back. Sometimes they snuck bacta into the dormitories, but it was used sparingly, not enough to prevent scarring, although it diminished some of the worst marks. But none of them would have used it on the Order’s symbol and erased what was carved so purposefully: a rite, an _honor_. 

He shakes the water out of his hair, sending droplets all over. The daylight is waning behind the castle and deepens to orange, then red; the shadows stretch longer. Ben’s gathering brush and driftwood along the trees. When he’s assembled enough fuel, he retrieves his plasma blade—a _lightsaber_ , he called it—from their things, ignites it, the energy shining blue, and touches the end to the detritus until it smokes and catches.

Armitage joins him next to it, looking down at the flames. “That’s surprisingly practical for a mystical weapon.”

Ben nudges him. “We didn’t _only_ learn to meditate.”

The two of them settle together in the sand, shifting now and then to properly dry their clothes, one side and then the other, and watch the sky darken. The stars begin to stand out brightly on inky blue. They’re different here than they are in the Unknown Regions, although he’s started to re-orient himself, recognizing the patterns of nearby systems, Cerea and Endor beyond it, the distant glimmer of the Core, the Outer Rim, the galaxy expanding in every direction, a thousand worlds untraveled, unseen.

Ben’s hand slips into his. His face is half-illuminated by the fire when Armitage turns to look at him. His expression's turned pensive. “You—wouldn’t either, right?”

A moment passes before Armitage understands. The stars through the viewport, the question, that stomach-dropping uncertainty before the jump. Earlier, sitting in the sunshine: _Would you go back?_ No, not quite that. _Would you go?_ A ship leaves the atmosphere, growing smaller and smaller until it disappears. He grips Ben’s hand back. “No,” he says, firmly as he can. “No, I wouldn’t.”

He relaxes visibly, although he doesn’t drop his hand, keeping hold of it as he lies back, and Armitage follows, the two of them side by side. In a while, his stomach will start to growl, or Ben’s will, and they’ll gather their things and find their way inside, where Maz will chasten them for tracking sand into her castle and then tell them to go get something to eat. Maybe they'll play Dejarik or sabacc, or maybe watch a holofilm. Eventually, they’ll stumble up the stairs to their room and shuffle into bed, and he’ll nestle closer to Ben and pull his arm around him, heavy, secure, anchoring, and they’ll talk in the dark before they fall asleep that way, because it’s simple, so simple to fall asleep that way. 

For now, though, they’ll look up at the stars and listening to the crackling fire, the sound of the lake next to him, the distant chatter from the fortress. And Armitage won’t do the calculations, he won’t, how far between uncharted space and here, the odds of them finding this small, green world, the likelihood that he’ll hear the Commandant’s voice again. He tries not to picture it, that shadow passing between them, a ship the size of a city blocking out those twinkling lights, eclipsing everything beyond this.

Instead, he studies the brilliant expanse above them, imagining another jump. Hangs onto Ben’s hand, warm in his. _This, this is next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted soon! Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmelyss1))


	2. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben struggles in his search for answers.

The Zabrak woman descends on Ben, her twin lightsabers blazing.

He raises his own hastily in defense; energy crackles, spitting between the blades where they cross. Ben grunts from the effort of fending off his attacker. He’s losing ground as she bears down with those two beams, so close he can feel the heat of them on his skin. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. His pulse throbs in his ears. He’s flagging, he knows, exhaustion settling in, and the Zabrak woman seems inexhaustible, face dyed bloody in the light from her weapons, her colorless eyes intent on his, her teeth bared in a sneer. Eventually, he drives her backward from strength and desperation alone, the muscles in his arms straining, trembling. She springs away, spinning her weapons; they hum through the air while she smirks at him, then beckons, as if to say: _give me your best shot, padawan_.

 _I’m not a padawan anymore._  

_I’m not anything._

Ben all but flings himself into the next bout, slashing wildly with his saber— _sloppy footwork,_ and Luke would chide him—and swinging it in wide arcs as he advances. His opponent brings her blades up to block each strike, one and then the other in an easy, effortless rhythm. She is, he understands, allowing him to move her around the clearing, not giving up more ground than she wants to and saving her energy, letting him wear himself out. He hacks at the air in frustration. Catches the ground in places, leaving scorch marks, the smell of burnt earth, singed grass. She steps carefully, turning him, preparing to go on the offensive again. There’s nothing to do but attack before she does and pray that he can to land a disabling blow. He yells and charges, twirling his lightsaber as he aims high—

She sidesteps him deftly, slicing both blades in mirrored arcs, cutting through tunic, flesh, and bone, severing him in two. 

Or she would, if she and her weapons were real. The beams pass through him harmlessly, leaving nothing more than the sensation of pins and needles in their wake, making the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck stand. The Zabrak woman flickers, moonlight pale, then vanishes.

“Okay. What did you do wrong?” a hollow voice asks from behind him.

“I only built one lightsaber?” Ben disengages his blade and replaces the hilt on his belt before turning to Anakin.

His grandfather appears younger today, his hair longer and face leaner, scar void-dark by his eye. He glows blue, more substantial than the opponents he projects for Ben to spar but still is unmistakably ethereal, a manifestation of concentrated Force energy. He explained the process of re-materialization to Ben once, how his consciousness draws itself back together, particle by particle, like filings clinging to a magnet. He shakes his head at him, amused. “Dual-wielding takes incredible skill and practice.”

Ben flops down in the grass, still winded; his tunic’s sticking to him in places, uncomfortable. “She made it look pretty kriffing easy.”

Anakin chuckles and sits cross-legged next to him. “She always did.”

“Who was she? Not a Jedi.” He’s battled against more than a few of the old Masters since they’ve started this, names he’d never heard before his grandfather told their stories, many of them lost with the destroyed archives. At first, it had been just that, just stories, talk, the way Ben talks to Maz and people like her, sharing in their experiences of the Force, their connection to it. But when he had expressed his boredom with _talking_ , how he missed practicing with Luke and his classmates—going through the forms on his own isn’t the same—Anakin returned with this solution. 

“She was, in fact, if briefly. She went to the Sith after she lost her Master, as I heard it. Grief can do that to a person.”

Neither of them speaks for a moment, Ben musing. Anakin remembering. He often is, he thinks, reassembling the fragments of his life before. The forest around Maz’s fortress chirps and buzzes with life, insects glowing in the underbrush, the lake’s gentle current lapping at the shore. The stars stand bright above them, as they always seem to here. It was harder to see them on Chandrila and virtually impossible on Coruscant.

“I let her get the upper hand,” Ben acknowledges. “And I—I got frustrated. Messy.” It’s an old problem of his. Luke had cautioned him about his impatience and his tendency to rely too much on physical strength.

His grandfather’s ghost makes a noncommittal noise, no less so for the way it echoes. “Even before that, you were distracted.” 

 _Not_ untrue. Ben huffs into his hair, displacing it. “Well, yeah. I guess I’ve been wondering what the point of all this is.”

That question had resounded through him earlier while he spoke with another of Maz’s acquaintances, a Bardottan mystic from Phu. He’d had to explain to her several times that he wasn’t a Jedi and wouldn't be, and she still looked at him with distrust for their entire conversation. Not that it had been uninteresting, her philosophy about the Force, the contemplation of balance, as there always was, but also the question of _obligation_ , what sensitives did and didn’t owe the Galaxy for their abilities, whether they should ever be tied to a single society. _The Jedi and the Republic became indistinguishable; the death of one led to the ruin of the other_ , she said. _It should not have been so._

And he couldn’t answer that, not with anything Luke had taught them, the _why. For what_. Had never considered it before, not like this. The Jedi had been wiped out, leaving a disequilibrium in the Force, yes, but was that a reason to bring them back? Wouldn’t the universe right itself in time without their interference? After all, Maz didn’t concern herself with anything of the kind, and her planet thrived. There must be other sensitives living quietly in other systems; probably they did the same.

Anakin’s regarding him with the same sadness and regret as that first night, the night Ben found his lightsaber. He’s aged again, his features softening, the shadows under his eyes fading. He could, in fact, almost be someone’s grandfather like this. “I said I can’t tell you what to do,” he reminds him.

“Or you _won’t_ ,” he mutters, irritable, and plucks at the grass. It’s getting late, the moon creeping above the tree line, and he’s missing his bed and Armitage. (He’d grumbled in his sleep and grabbed his pillow when Ben left. It’s getting more difficult to leave him.)

And that’s all he wants to do now, wrap around him and bury his nose in his hair. Drift back off. Not have to worry about all this. Maybe never again. How easy that would be.

“Is that what you want?” Anakin asks. Voice neutral, patient. “To cut yourself off from the Force? Forget about all this?”

“Would you have?” Ben counters immediately. Not shouting, not quite. “Knowing what you do, if you could walk away from the Jedi and be with Grandmother, would you?” He’s heard more of that story now, how it had been a secret, how Sidious had manipulated Anakin into joining his side, how Padmé Amidala had died before his mother was an hour old.

His grandfather looks away into the trees. “That was never an option for us, Ben. Not with how things were. Even if we had, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

He scowls. “Right, that’s the problem—it doesn’t matter if I’m done with the Force. It’s not done with _me_. Especially the Dark.” He thinks he’s only dreaming Snoke’s voice these days, the memory of it; it lacks the texture of their previous communications, oil-slick and frigid. But there’s also the voice out in these woods that still calls to him on some nights, the one he’ll have to face eventually. Anakin senses it, too, he’s sure. Possibly why he’s training him, teaching him to fight these past few months, because this is that. More haphazard and sporadic than his lessons at the Temple. Not like Luke’s teaching, which had been so painstaking, so cautious. But training all the same.

 _You had a padawan, right?_ he’d asked early on.

Anakin had flickered, then gone still. _Once_.

He doesn’t speak again now, waiting. Ben sighs. “I don’t really want to be separated from it,” he admits. The world around him pulses, more than sound or sight or smell. He can sense all of it, the smallest thrumming of life, all of it linked and rippling, all those infinite connections. He’s tried to explain it to Armitage—failing that, show him a little of it—but it’s not fully definable, not with words, how it is, to experience the Galaxy this way. How grounding it is. How necessary it seems. And there is, too, a cold pit a few kilometers off, tugging at his consciousness, inviting him closer, whispering that it has secrets, such secrets, everything he wants to know, everything he wants. _Purpose._ It grazes his mind, clammy, viscid. _Not tonight_ , he tells it, resolute. “But if I’m not a Jedi, what am I? What can I do?”

Anakin rests a hand on his shoulder. It has no weight to it, nor warmth, but it’s nearly like being touched. “You don’t have to wear those robes to serve the Light.”

 

* * *

 

Ben walks back to the fortress alone, the evening’s ghosts dissipated, reincorporated in the ethereal Force. His thoughts buzz, swarm. Once or twice, he’s considered sending Luke a comm, possibly by way of his mother, but he hasn't decided what to say yet. Can still feel Luke recoiling from the Darkness in him, from Snoke’s fingerprints, and the innate condemnation in that, of him. The way their bond had fractured, brittle, more fragile than he’d realized, and then shattered. He’s been bereft since then, lacking the assurance of Luke’s guidance. And no, it’s not that he wants to go back—it’s not—although he misses the certainty of it, knowing what he needed to be, where he needed to be.

He climbs the castle stairs slowly, the place as vivid in the Force as it always is, so clear he could almost drag his fingers through the layers of color and memory and expect them to come away tinged. Like the drifting clouds of chalk on Life Day. He stumbles into the ‘fresher, scouring away the night’s exertions in the sonic before he returns to his room and Armitage.

Except Armitage isn’t here.

Ben fights the surging panic in his chest, fear knocking through him, the need to shout for Maz, for Han (two kriffing weeks late, of course), for anyone to help. The covers on the bed are turned back neatly; he sees no signs of a struggle. And he knows whatever happened, Armitage would _always_ struggle. He must have left of his own volition then.

Temporarily, Ben amends to himself. Never mind the way Armitage stares at visitors' ships sometimes, _wanting_ clear on his face. 

He’s not used to staying still, being grounded, that’s all.

He lets out a long breath and shuts his eyes, searching, seeking, those particular colors, more blues and greens than grays now, less shadowed, and that cool quiet—not exactly an absence, that calm, although near it. Engine grease. A spanner in his hand. Subspace physics, whorls of calculations spiraling. It’s easy, practiced, reaching for him this way, and his senses don’t take him far, just downstairs: the kitchens. 

His cheeks heat. Of course, it’s nothing; nothing has happened for weeks, not even a whisper of pursuit, their encounter on the way to Chandrila a fluke like Maz said. Probably Armitage was hungry. He usually is. 

Ben follows that signature down to the first level anyway, wanting to see for himself that nothing is wrong. It surprises him that the place is dark, not even a small light in the kitchen or out in the main room, and more so to find Armitage curled up on a pallet by the conservators, his knees drawn up, a blanket cocooning him. He seems to be sleeping well enough, only a slight pinch between his brows, his fingers twitching. No afterimages of his usual nightmares: classmates with knives and lying in pooling blood; someone called _the Commandant,_ his indifferent voice, measuring stare, always displeased; those red banners unfurling down, down, down.

He could rouse him and ask him to come upstairs where it’s more comfortable but he settles down next to him instead, slinging one arm over his waist and pressing close. If he’d been gone, really gone—Armitage stirs and shifts in his grip, mumbling, “Ben?” Although he’s already nestling back against him and interlacing their fingers. Automatic. 

“Yeah,” he confirms. “How’d you end up down here?”

“Couldn’t sleep after you went,” he yawns. “Thought the noise might help. The machines. Y’know. Like a ship.”

The low hum of the conservators, he means, and the other kitchen equipment. _Like a ship_. Something he needed and didn’t have, that background noise of living in space. Ben holds him tighter for that and kisses his hair, the tuft of a cowlick at the back. “I’m sorry.” _For leaving you alone. For making you stay here._

Armitage pats his hand. _“‘_ Snothing.” He stretches, long limbs flung out in every direction, his elbow just missing Ben's nose. “C’mon, it’s cold in here. Let’s go upstairs.”

 

* * *

 

By the time he completes his morning meditation and heads down for his breakfast, the castle is already bustling: the sentients boarding there and others arriving to trade, have a drink, play a game at the tables, and catch up on chatter as they do. Maz doesn’t allow politics to pass through the castle gates, but gossip flows as freely as the Ossberry ale. Ben barely needs to check the holonet’s newsfeeds to know that key votes are coming up in the Senate and that—no shock to anyone, least of all him—his mother’s right in the middle of it and engaged in another scrap with the Centrists. All the usual debates about her objectivity and fitness to govern are churning to the surface, like muck disturbed at the bottom of a riverbed, and no few commentators are making unflattering comparisons to shriek-hawks from the sound of it.

He doesn’t miss Coruscant.

Ben switches off his datapad, disgusted, and massages his temples, trying to chase away the beginnings of a headache. He didn’t sleep well after they went upstairs. Can’t quite remember his dreams, although they were uneasy, and even Armitage had rolled away from him at one point, disturbed by his restless shifting.

He catches sight of him across the room, the flash of his hair, the colorful lettering on the t-shirts he still favors. He helps the kitchen droids in the mornings, fell into this part of their life immediately and never seems to lack for things to do. Ben tries to do his part, but he’s under strict instructions not to use the Force where anyone can see. _No harm should come to you in my home, but I cannot keep word from spreading_ about _you_ , Maz had said. _Best if as few people as possible know who you are and why you’re here._ But she makes few demands of him anyway. Of either of them. 

“That child cannot hold himself still.” The diminutive Pirate Queen of Takodana herself appears at his side as surely as though he had summoned her. She has a habit of doing that; Ben’s witnessed more than one hardened bounty hunter practically startling out of their boots when Maz snuck up on them. It might be the Force; it might be her small stature; it might be those thick, hand-knit socks she wears. “Stars save us from his boredom.” This she says not entirely with exasperation, or not only, and there’s no missing the particular way she is with Armitage, direct but gentle.

“You could give him something to build,” Ben suggests. He’s given it some thought himself, watching him here and on the _Falcon_. He seemed happiest when he had a project, and Han had taken him to leaving him spare parts to work with. “He’d probably like that.”

She strokes her chin. “That’s an idea. Plenty of junk around here. He could help himself.” She turns her attention to him. “And you, my not-pupil, what do you need of me?”

“Have you heard from my father?” he asks. “It’s been—he was supposed to be here by now.” Not liking how small his voice sounds, how fragile. And he’s tried to convince himself that it’s unimportant, that it’s expected, but he had hoped, after, considering, _maybe_. Maybe something might have changed. That he might have that assurance, that Han would be here when he said. That he wouldn’t forget him in favor of some new scheme.

Stupid, probably, to hope for that.

“So eager to leave us, young Solo?” Her voice arches, amused. 

He denies this, although he understands she’s joking. “It’s not that. But it’s been a few months, and I don’t—” _I don’t know what I’m doing anymore._ _The longer I stay, the less I know._ He rubs his neck, willing away the pain that’s settled there, squeezing.

She examines his face more closely, that keen gaze that’s looked through so many people, finding the core of who they are in seconds. “You’re tired. Eventful night?”

He shrugs. “More of the same with my grandfather.”

She laughs: warm, throaty, low. “Ghosts seem made to aggravate the living, do they not? They never understand our petty, temporal concerns. _Where should I go? What should I do?_ I believe your uncle found them quite unhelpful at times.”

Luke had spoken rarely of his interactions with his old Masters, only doing so to explain how _he_ learned the ways of the Force; it’s difficult, however, to imagine him bickering with them. Ben says as much.

Maz’s eyes twinkle behind her goggles. “You would be surprised, I think.”

 _Well, Luke isn’t here to tell me_ , Ben nearly snaps, and his head throbs, as if in answer.

She studies him, considering, as though he had spoken. “You’ll find your way in time, young one,” she promises. “These things can’t be rushed, you know. There used to be more patience in this Galaxy. The pair of you could use some.” She nods towards Armitage, who’s approaching, untying his apron as he goes. _He_ looks rested despite the interrupted sleep; he’s quickly losing the pallor of someone who’s spent his entire life on starships, nose and cheeks freckling, hair lightening from the time they spend outdoors, under Takodana’s sun. Ben can’t help but smile at him and more so when Armitage smiles back without hesitation. 

Maz tuts at them. “It’s too early for such sweets,” she says. To Ben: “We’ll speak further later. There’s an old friend of mine you should meet, a Twi’lek traveler. She’s forgotten more about the Force than the rest of us may ever learn.” She pats Armitage on the wrist as she goes. “And _you._ Take the day off.”

“I was going to work on the—“

“Red.”

He sighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

They watch her walk back into the crowd, calling greetings to patrons and the band, which is beginning to warm up. An Ortolan jumps, his wide blue ears flaring, when Maz accosts him without warning.

“She likes you, you know,” Ben tells him when she's out of earshot. 

Armitage settles on the bench across from him. “I’m not so sure.”

“She does,” he insists. “She finds you funny, but I think when you’re a thousand, you find everyone kind of funny.”

His mouth twists. “I have known some distinctly unamusing people.” 

Ben nudges his ankle with one foot, the slightest contact to remind him that they’re thousands of parsecs away from anyone who would want to harm him. Also just because he wants to touch him. It was simpler, in a way, to do before he had kissed him and kept kissing him, before they’d started exchanging shy caresses sometimes. He could touch him without thinking, friendly, easy. Now, those same gestures might mean something else. 

Armitage bumps him back, the toe of his boot tracing his shin, slow. Lingering. He meets his gaze steadily, those sharp green eyes, alert, missing little. He smirks when Ben flushes, but withdraws. Reaches across the table to snag a piece of sweet granadilla and pops it in his mouth. Chews carefully, savoring it, the way he does all new food. “Any news?”

“My mother and Ormes Apolin almost came to blows in the Senate commons yesterday,” he volunteers.

“More the fool him, then.” He raises his eyebrows at Ben's reaction. “What? I’ve heard the stories, same as anyone. Probably the more harrowing versions, considering the sources.”

It’s strange to imagine his mother on propaganda posters, to think of Armitage being instructed in her crimes against the Empire, as well as her irredeemable character, like the villainess out of a bad holodrama. Then, he’s heard the poetry now, too. 

Organa doesn’t lend itself to many decent rhyme schemes, at least in Basic.

“I should write her.” He runs both hands through his hair. They’ve been corresponding regularly since he saw her, although weeks passed before he could manage anything more than a few short sentences. How it had felt—her horror, her anger, her grief, the full weight of it, as fresh as the day she learned the truth about her family. He’d spent most of the cycles following meditating, returning that pain to the Force, clearing it piece by piece, and the rest of them with Armitage, taking refuge in that, in him, his stillness. “Maybe send a holo.”

“Is she still trouncing you at chess?” 

He groans. They've been doing that, too, including a new move in each message. His Kolina Maneuver is in imminent danger of a game-ending collapse. “Of course she is. She always did. I’ve never seen anyone beat her at holochess. Not a droid, not even Uncle Chewie.”

“May I help?” Armitage asks, eyelashes flicking, his nonchalant tone failing to mask his obvious interest. He’s found a few worthy opponents at the games tables here in the fortress, although from the sound of it, they haven’t posed a _significant_ challenge. 

Ben can’t resist the opportunity to tease him. “What, want to try and beat the insurrectionist princess of Alderaan at a game of strategy?” 

“Pardon me, but personal glory has nothing to do with it.” He widens his eyes, all exaggerated offense at the suggestion. “Of course, I want to assist my—ah—“ He falters, stumbling over whatever he meant to say, his cheeks reddening. 

A thrill of understanding goes through Ben as their eyes meet. What _are_ they to one another now that they’ve kissed? “I,“ he tries, then looks away, blushing to match Armitage. “Right, I’ll, um. Find that message.” Relieved to have something else to do— _what_ _are they—_ he scrolls through his datapad. Before he finds his mother’s last note, he sees he has a new one from his father, blinking. Ben had written him last week to ask where the hells he was. 

No video recording accompanies the message, only plain, starkly written text: _Sorry, kiddo, gonna be a while longer. Need you and Red to sit tight for another month or two. See you as soon as we can. —Dad_

Ben stares down at the screen, the Aurebesh wobbling, his hands trembling. Kriff, of course, _just a few months_ didn’t really mean a karking thing to Han Solo. Probably he had more cargo to move, more customs officials to dodge, some illegal import to haul to the highest bidder. _Another month or two_. Like an afterthought. Like Ben is an inconvenience. It had been an incredible stroke of luck for him to be able to dump them here and not have to worry about it, this unanswerable question of what to do with him. And so: back to business as usual.

“Ben? What is it?” Armitage is asking, but he doesn’t quite hear him. His plate is rattling on the table; his glass tumbles onto its side, water spilling out over the wood. The lights above them sway and flicker. The table and benches are shuddering, and something groans, deep in the castle. There are startled shouts somewhere far off. Ben closes his eyes, clenches and unclenches his hands, the edges of the datapad digging into his skin. _It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter_ , he tries to assure himself, although that litany has never quite worked. Easier, always, to give in to the anger, the embarrassment _—_ so _stupid_ to think anything has changed _—_ and the certainty that he’s unimportant, unwanted. _It doesn’t mean—_

The datapad snaps clean in two in his hands, a shower of sparks falling from the jagged halves. 

“ _Ben_ ,” Armitage repeats, more urgently now, and he reaches across the table to grab his wrist. It’s there, that still centered feeling, dew and first light and a contented sigh, but faint, so faint in comparison to the other voice goading him, urging him on. _Go ahead and bring it all down; you’ll enjoy it_.

Something crashes across the room, and there’s more shouting, maybe the smell of something burning, or maybe he’s on the hill again, seeing what he has to do, what Snoke told him he _must_ do to achieve the greatness owed him. The grip on his wrist tightens, and he’s aware, distantly, of being hauled upright, away from the table, pulled towards the door. And _it doesn’t matter_ , he can shatter everything from outside, he can. _Yes, do it, unloved child_ , the voice—voices?—encourage him, gleeful.

 _Be reasonable, Ben_ , his mother had often urged him when he got in these moods, when he used to take his room apart with the Force, although that had been before she sent him away, before Luke taught him control. _I don’t_ want _to be reasonable_ , he sometimes yelled, sometimes sniffled back at her. _Why do I have to be?_

It’s stronger, this second time, that sense of calm, like being submerged in the lake, surrounded by cool, green water, all sound muffled. A soft breath in his ear, warm in the bunk. _Armitage_.

Coming out of it, Ben’s aware of a familiar pair of skinny arms wrapped around his shoulders. Recognizes the heartbeat thudding against his, has felt it so many times, fast like this, in the middle of a nightmare. Only they're not in the bunk. “Am I doing this right?” Armitage asks after a pause. He’s trembling slightly.

Ben exhales, shaky, and brings his own arms up to encircle him, holding him back, pressing his face against the collar of his shirt. Inhales, exhales. Again. Again. _Kriff_. Again. “Thank you,” he says finally, when he can speak.

Armitage pulls back to nose at his cheek, his ear. “I believe I’m becoming rather the expert,” he muses, voice light. But his tone grows serious when he asks: “Ben, what the hells was that?”

He shakes his head, holding him more closely. “I don’t know. I lost my temper, and then there was this voice—“

He goes still in his arms. “A voice? Was it—?” _Was it Snoke?_ he doesn’t ask.

“No.” He’s nearly sure. “No, it sounded different.” _Felt different_ , although he doesn’t think he could explain the distinction in texture, quality. This is— _older_ than Snoke. The voice out in the woods; it’s been here as long as Maz has, probably.

 _Longer_ , something affirms. Something that isn’t him: the Force itself.

Armitage sighs, stirring his hair. “How many evil, eldritch voices are after you, Ben Solo?”

“Only those two,” he promises. Then, thinking better of it, adds, “That I know of.”

He nudges him again, chastising. “Have you heard this one before? You recognize it?”

“Yes,” he tells him and explains, how he first heard it the day they arrived, how he’s heard it in the forest each night since then. 

He’s quiet, listening, in that way he does when he’s trying to understand Ben’s descriptions of the Force, although he doesn’t loosen his grip. May hold him more firmly, in fact. “Does Maz know?”

“No.”

“ _Ben._ ” Armitage pulls back to scowl at him. _That’s mad_ , he’d said when Han suggested they stay here. And perhaps not wrongly.

“But it hasn’t been able to reach me like this before,” he protests. “I could hear it, but I could ignore it. Block it out if I needed to.” He is again now, holding it at a distance, although he can still feel the traces of it on him, like slime.

His scowl gentles to a frown. “So what’s different? You said you lost your temper. What happened? Was it—” _Was it me somehow?_

He denies this as vehemently as he can. “It was Han. He wrote to tell me. Well, he’s stranding us here, more or less. I don’t know when he’s coming back. Or if he’s coming back. It’s like it always was, just empty promises.” He can feel the ugly flush on his face, crawling down his neck. Hates it and the prickle of tears.

Armitage tilts his head, his pale eyes considering. “That’s not it, though, is it? It’s not only that, I mean, your father leaving us here. Your mother would retrieve you within the hour if you asked her, after all.”

And it’s like him, always, to pose the difficult question.

“I—“ Ben swallows, then glances away. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He can’t utter it softly enough, heavy as it sits on his tongue. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve looked to the Force and Maz and my grandfather’s ghost, and I still don’t know. I thought I would.” 

To his surprise, he nods, the exasperation leaving his face. But then, Armitage has often surprised him in the intervening months, since that very first night on the Falcon. “I don’t either,” he admits. “It was so simple before. It seemed predestined, in a way, that I would be who I was. I didn’t think about being anything else. They didn’t let us—but now.” He curls his fingers in Ben’s hair. “It’s awful, in a way, having to _choose_.”

He leans forward, letting their foreheads touch, and the tension drains from him, his own frustration bleeding free with it. That malevolent presence has gone, too. He winces—what might it have done, _he_ have done, if that had continued? “Was anyone hurt?” he asks. “Did anyone see?” _So much for not attracting attention._ They keep failing at that. Maz will undoubtedly have words for him.

He’ll make his amends when the time comes but he’d rather not go back inside any time soon.

“No, no one was hurt,” Armitage assures him. He pulls back, then takes his hand, leading him away from the fortress, following one of the winding paths towards the woods. Maybe anticipating his reluctance to return, maybe feeling it himself. “And I don’t think anyone realized. It was like an earthquake.” He adds, wondering: “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I’ve never done anything like it before,” Ben says. That other version of him, the one from his visions, might have; probably he would think of nothing of taking down a building, stone by stone, but that future is severed, unreachable, a might have been. Or it was supposed to be. He hasn’t seen any other premonitions from that path, the one to which Snoke meant to lead him. “My connection to the Force has been—complicated lately. It’s like that. When you have doubts.” 

He slows. “Doubts about the Force?”

“About my place in it,” he tries to explain. “The balance between Light and Dark—it’s this cosmic struggle, and my family’s always been part of it, since my grandfather. And now I don’t know where I fit into that, how I’m meant to be, if I’m not a Jedi and not—“ Not a Sith. Something else. _Snoke’s_. “Whatever I almost was.” _A monster_.

Armitage laughs; it’s not mocking, cruel, the way his laughter sometimes is still, despite him. Not his genuine laughter either, like when they swim in the lake, where he looks as carefree as he ever has. He shakes his head, disbelieving. “The whole Galaxy’s peace and harmony rests on your one family, like—like a fulcrum? You realize most sentients these days don’t even believe the _Force_ exists, let alone the Jedi. The Empire made sure of that, yes? I’d wager most of them don’t especially give a bantha’s ass about your famous parents either, _Ben Organa Solo_.” If he sneers his full name, it’s with unusual affection. _Teasing him_ , he understands belatedly. 

Ben blinks, startled. He’s understood, for as long as he could remember, that he would be treated differently for who his parents were, and grandparents, and his uncle. That people would hate him just for sharing the name Skywalker or Organa or even Solo with its dubious protections, not anonymous but at least not _royal_. His mother explained when he was small that others might want things from him, expect favors. That he could be hurt or taken away for these reasons. He learned, too, when he got older that he might get what he wanted using those names as well, sweets and special treatment. That he could get away with more, without fear of punishment—except, of course, by his mother. But no one has ever suggested anyone might feel _apathy_ about who he is, any of those names, even his first not entirely his own. He starts to laugh, too, louder and longer than he expects, nearly dizzy at the suggestion. His voice rings out against the trees.

“Never mind your family or the Force. What about you? What do _you_ want?” Armitage asks, turning towards him. Dappled shadows fall across his face from the trees above, intricate patterns shifting over his skin.

“Well, for one, I’d really like to kiss you,” he confesses, drawing him closer by their joined hands.

“I’d like that, too,” he murmurs, canting his head, the words catching against Ben's lips. “Very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! More soon. <3
> 
> ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmelyss1))


	3. Maz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrest continues at the castle despite everyone's best efforts, and Maz struggles with her two young charges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that there is a little bit of mind manipulation via the Force in this chapter. It doesn't affect any major characters, but if you find that unsettling, please tread carefully.

“Tell me again,” Maz says, folding her arms. She surveys the wreckage of her castle’s public hall from atop the only unharmed table. Capsized furniture lies strewn across the room, one bench smashed to kindling; here and there, foamy pools of spilled ale leak slowly over the stones; jagged shards of ceramic, half-finished food, scattered cards, and her house gambling chits litter the floor. For the second time in as many months, her home is a disaster. Two of her droids, H7 and K3, are sweeping up the worst of the mess, righting the tables, collecting the abandoned chits and credits. The place is otherwise abandoned, save for the two shame-faced boys standing in front of her. “What happened?”

“It was my fault, ma’am,“ Armitage admits, ducking his head, at the same time Ben says, “We were just defending ourselves.” They turn to gawk at each other.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ben insists, heated. His hair’s wilder than usual, a tear runs the length of his tunic, and his right cheek’s beginning to swell. “That skug attacked you for no kriffing reason.”

Armitage isn’t in much better condition. He rubs his right arm where finger-shaped bruises show on his freckled skin, and his knuckles are tacky with someone else’s blood. He shakes his head, then winces. “Not _no_ reason. I did beat him pretty handily at sabacc.”

Ben rattles off a long string of compound curses in Alderaanian. Or Maz believes that’s what it is. She hasn’t had much occasion to speak that language in the past twenty years or so—no one has—and one does lose them eventually. She still dreams in some of them, those long-unspoken tongues unuttered by a living soul for hundreds of revolutions around the sun. Eventually, Ben switches back to Basic, all but shouting, “Just because he’s lousy at cards doesn’t give him any right to—“

“Stop,” Maz says, sternly enough that her not-Jedi student hushes. Armitage stands a little straighter next to him, not quite at attention, although she thinks he would salute if she blinked at him. “First. How did it start.”

She had only caught the tail-end of the ruckus, when the room was already in disarray, and the wisest of her patrons had long ago excused themselves. Zedbeddy Coggins and the rest of the band were crouched behind an overturned table and clutching their instruments. She’d stomped into the room, ready to lay a lifetime ban on whoever had broken her castle’s _only_ rule to find her two—temporary, or they were meant to be—young charges at the center of the chaos. A scowling Ben Solo imposed himself between Armitage and everything else; he looked fit to toss aggressors away with a thought. But of course. 

At least he hadn’t drawn his lightsaber. Or tried to bring the building down on them again. Small mercies.

“I was playing a game of Corellian Spike,” Armitage explains, still standing rigidly, no doubt waiting for more of a rebuke. As he speaks, she catches a glimpse of it, how he sees the scene in his mind’s eye. He’s sitting at the sabacc table with four other sentients, two humanoids, an Aqualish, and one of her regulars, the Narquois bandit, Pru Sweevant, his blue face just visible over the table’s edge. “I was winning.” There had been, yes, a sizable pile of chits in front of him, and another promising collection of cards in his hand. And no surprise there; many of her customers have learned to avoid “Red” at the games tables these past several months, and he is a particular terror at Corellian Spike, thanks to Han Solo. “Ben was—across the room, I think.” He frowns, trying to remember.

Ben nods, hurried, but waits for her to give him leave to speak, gnawing his bottom lip as he does. Not a bad boy, she’s thought more than once, not by design or intention. Hot-headed, impatient, and prone to his bloodlines' histrionics, very much so. But also eager to do good, to _be_ good. It had been written all over him the moment he walked in this place, that determination to live up to his many names and legacies, to be his mother’s son and his father’s son and his famous uncle’s nephew. All of them excessive in the same way. She should have known better, probably, than to take in a Skywalker and expect her business and her home to come out in one piece.

But she’s always been soft-hearted towards the lost ones trying to find their way in the Galaxy. Occasionally to her own detriment.

“I was speaking to the Gatalentan you introduced me to,” Ben says. “The poet. He knows my mother’s friend. Amilyn.” 

More flickers from the scene: Ben sitting across from the old man, wearing shades of violet, his wet, gentle eyes, the sonorous sound of his voice as he explains how his sensitivity has informed his understanding of the Galaxy and how he tries to represent it using words. Ben had been especially attentive, and even now Maz can sense his enthusiasm for the conversation, the possibilities it represented. His education in the Force has been halting and piecemeal and at times discouraging for him. But then, the Force resists easy answers, and that’s all young people want. 

She’s glad he liked the poet. She does too.

“I was going to get us some tea,” Ben adds. “And I heard shouting.”

A familiar voice cried, “Let me _go_.” One of the humanoids, a tall, burly man in armor, had Armitage by the wrist and was hauling him away from the game table. The man goes by Qualto, Maz recalls hazily—almost certainly a bounty hunter, dressed like that, or a gun for hire. Not a regular, but she knows the type. Ben had dropped the tray immediately, giving no thought before he flung himself at the man and punched him in the face.

Maz can’t hold back a dry chuckle. “You didn’t think to persuade him? Or use the Force at all?”

He blushes to the roots of his dark hair.

“Ah, yes. You didn’t _think._ ” She leans forward to poke him in the forehead, right between the eyes. “You only reacted.”

“He was _hurting_ him,” Ben protests, sulky, staring down at his boots instead of at her or Armitage, who’s sneaking small, wondering glances at him. “He deserved it. And worse.”

Every worshipped and forgotten god save her from moony-eyed children. She’s much too old for this. 

Maz sighs. “You understand it’s not that simple, not for you.” She turns back to Armitage. “The usual trouble, was it?”

He nods, although he’s still looking at Ben, something uneasy in his eyes. Not afraid, not exactly. Something he doesn’t want to say. “He thought I was cheating. I offered him his credits back, but that wasn’t—he said that wasn’t good enough. He grabbed me. And then Ben was there.” His mouth twitches, the barest sprig of a smile, and he’s better practiced at not smiling, not reacting. More remarkable for him to express himself at all, even now.

Qualto had punched Ben back, of course; he caught him hard across the cheekbone with one gauntleted fist and knocked him into and over the sabacc table, scattering chits and cards everywhere. But he hadn’t counted on Armitage hitting him, too, and breaking his nose in the process. Blood spurted from the injury. And lucky that it had been only that, that Armitage had been too concerned with Ben to hit him again, to press his advantage and do more damage. When they arrived, Han told her what happened on Nori Station, the guard that Armitage had beaten, this runaway with his grim history, the shadows yet lurking in those green eyes, even after months here. She can feel the muddle of it, his worry and self-reproach, the thought of what he might have done. Still afraid of that.

But he hadn’t, hadn’t struck Qualto again; he’d helped Ben to his feet, cradling his injured cheek and asking if he was okay. 

“It got—sort of out of hand after that,” Ben admits and rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, looking every inch Han Solo’s son.

Neither of them has a clear idea of why that happened, how they found themselves at the center of so much chaos, but she can guess. Some of her guests no doubt fled as soon as the first punch was thrown and more after the second. One or two might have sided with Qualto. He has friends, or partners, if she recalls correctly. But the majority probably joined the fray over the fallen sabacc chits or for the fun of it, taking advantage of the confusion to settle some scores. There’d been plenty of scuffling when she arrived. ME would help her sort out the worst offenders; the droid had probably identified the troublemakers without being asked.

“We _are_ sorry, ma’am,” Armitage says. “We didn’t mean to cause trouble.” _Again_ , he doesn’t add, although it’s implied, acknowledged. These past months have not been quiet, not with Ben Solo struggling to regain his place in the Force, the near misses and upsets and losses of temper. And there had been a particularly memorable incident when Armitage tried to install upgrades on the rehydration unit by himself and flooded the whole ground floor. 

She resists the urge to take off her goggles and scrub her tired eyes. Han Solo owes her after this. In perpetuity.

“Well, then.” Maz levels her most forbidding glare at Ben. “You, start cleaning up this mess. And no cheating with the Force. I’ll know if you do.” To Armitage, she says, softer, “Red, come with me, please.”

He does so without argument, although she sees Ben snag his fingers before they part, one of those endless small moments between the two of them—shy smiles, held hands, the way they talk to each other, the low murmur of their voices, exchanging confidences, everything they think no one else notices. She hadn’t expected that when she felt Ben Solo return to Takodana. Part of her had believed that she would never see the boy again, some great or terrible destiny leading him elsewhere. Yet here he is, with this other child with his unusual eyes brimming with all the terror and resolve of someone who’s stepped off the set path and into the woods.

It’s unavoidable, probably, that the two of them would attract danger, although she would like for her home still be standing at the end of their stay, whenever that may be.

“I—“ Armitage says, no doubt meaning to apologize again. 

Maz waves him off, stopping at a door and leading him inside. It’s only a storage room, piled with crates, but it sits at the heart of the castle, where they are least likely to be disturbed. “What aren’t you telling me about today?”

He startles. “Nothing.”

“Your sabacc face isn’t _that_ good, child.” She plants her fists on her hips and raises her chin, expectant. “Out with it.”

Armitage fishes a device out of one pocket: the sort of portable comm unit she’s seen many bounty hunters wear over the years, usually around a wrist or clipped to a belt; they kept track of their clients and jobs that way. He must have lifted it off of Qualto during the brawl. “The game was a way around your rules, I think. Win or lose, he would have tried to take me with him.”

Understanding sinks, leaden, through Maz. “I see.”

Months ago, Han Solo had sat at her table with Chewbacca and asked this favor of her: _Don’t tell them_. _I’ll handle it—they don’t need to know, Maz. They’re only kids_. _Let them just be that for a while longer_.

Armitage is clever with gadgets, of course. He presses a few buttons, and the bounty pops up: his own face, blue in the wavering holo, but unmistakably him, those sharp eyes, that mouth, but thin and inexpressive. Another image, fuzzier, from the security cameras on Nori Station, a furtive-looking boy on an overcrowded concourse. The bounty uses a designation rather than a name, a series of letters and digits that must be his identification number within the organization, the _Order_ , as he calls it. 20,000 credits. Not a large bounty. Not enough to draw _attention_ —they would want to avoid that more than anything. Below that sit three unfeeling words: _dead or alive_.

His mouth quirks, wry, and his eyes go flat, almost colorless—the expression of someone much older. “Alive is so they can make an example of me, I guess.”

“Armitage,” Maz says as gently as she can, forgoing the nickname. 

“That was true since the beginning, wasn’t it. Those ships that attacked the _Falcon_ were after me.” It’s not a question, his voice nearly monotone as he speaks, but she nods anyway, confirming. “You lied, you and Captain Solo. Why didn’t you tell us?”

She sighs, then pulls herself up on top of a crate. Pats the one next to her, inviting him to sit. After a moment’s hesitation, he does, long legs hanging down. “What would it have changed if we had?” She hushes his protest. “Yes, you would have behaved differently, wouldn’t you? You’d always be looking over your shoulder, always wondering. But you were already afraid, were you not? Already wondering if someone might come to take you back to that place.”

Armitage considers this, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. “That’s true. But if I’d known, I might have been more careful. Or maybe.“ He swallows, blinking, his eyes bright.

“Or maybe you would have left us,” she finishes the thought for him. “Gone into hiding. That is what Ben’s mother, the senator, wanted, to put you both somewhere safe. But it seemed a poor exchange, your safety for your freedom. And that’s dangerous in its own way.”

“There are sympathizers in the New Republic,” he agrees. “People who’ll benefit if the Empire comes back. Or a version of it. My—” He cuts himself off; his fingers spasm. “The Commandant and the others were always searching for new allies.” 

“That’s right.” It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how much he’s seen and knows in some ways, in favor of everything he doesn’t. A child who understands how the navigation system on a star destroyer functions and how to vanquish a more skilled opponent, but not what music sounds like, how the grass feels under your feet. “This is a less complicated place. Somewhere you could stay while we learn more.”

“That’s what Captain Solo’s doing. Looking for the Order,” he says, slowly, as he realizes what they’ve done. Then more sharply: “Ben thinks he’s abandoned us here.”

“Did you share what you learned with our young master Solo?” Maz asks, shifting the subject. Although she thinks not, given Ben’s reactions.

Armitage shakes his head. “There wasn’t time.” 

And that may be partly true, but she can see his hesitation. The uncertain way he’d looked at Ben before.

“Will you?”

Armitage goes quiet, considering this. “It would worry him. He already worries about it, about what could happen to me. With his mother, he—” He turns the device over in his hands, then his expression grows more serious. “But I don’t want to lie to him. He wouldn’t lie to me.” This last he says fiercely, with conviction.

She reaches over to pat his wrist. It’s become a habit, quick, gentle gestures, and he doesn’t jump anymore when she touches him. Then, she knows she’s not very frightening, given most sentients are twice her size or more. “I won’t tell you to lie. It’s your decision.”

“And what are you going to do?” He pockets the comm again, face still troubled. “With Qualto, I mean. He knows where I am. Who I am. Or almost.”

“We’ll handle it,” she assures him. It’s not the first time she’s had to do so in this long, eventful life. “Now go on, and help your brave protector. He’s useless with a mop.”

“Well, the New Republic lacks discipline, you know,” Armitage intones, then snorts in a rare display of humor about his old life. He moves to leave before pausing and turning back to her. Rare eyes. They should be colder than they are. “Thank you,” he says.

Maz shoos him away. “Ach, get on with you, child. Still too serious by half.” If she’s lucky, she’ll only have half a dozen well-intentioned new inventions to contend with by the end of the week. Always the tinkerer, he’s been making good use of the scrap around the castle. Maybe too good, but at least he’ll keep busy. A restless mind, that one, better put to work than left idle. 

She lingers in the room; it’s cool and close and quiet, and she hardly needs to shut her eyes to feel the Force reverberating through the castle, as loud as rain on dry earth. She can center herself anywhere here, see the infinite bonds between every soul and mote and particle. There are the residents in the quarters upstairs, others outside, tending to ships and cargo, giving everything a wide berth yet after this latest uproar. Cookie is in the kitchen, beginning the night’s meals, the air around him lively with the smell of herbs, spices. Armitage joins Ben the hall, helping him clean up the mess. They jostle each other with elbows, light pushes, both of them feeling fragile, tentative after today, although not with one another.

She’ll message Han Solo tonight. _You need to come back and talk to your son._

 _Don’t be a coward_ , she need not add, in Basic or her own sweet, unwinding mother tongue. He'll see it.

 _Don’t forget the Wookiee_ , she _will_ add. After all, who will stop her, old as she is?

Before that, though, before she can contend with getting her home set to rights, before the chaos of the dinner hour, before she can send the boys off to breathe in the night air and forget their anxieties for the evening, there is the man in the next room. She knows his sort, familiar and too desperate and scrounging to be anything but mean, doing all he must to survive, yes, but liking it, the feeling of power it gives him. Just the sort of person an organization like the Order needs to do its dirty work. To attack _children_. Maz takes a deep breath.

Yes, she will have to deal with the bounty hunter first.

 

* * *

 

Qualto sits slumped in the corner where ME left him, his hands bound in front of him with magna cuffs, his blaster and his armor also confiscated. The man in front of Maz hunches, diminished in his shirt and trousers, blood drying on his upper lip, the skin around his right eye darkening. “I didn’t start it,” he insists when she enters the room. His voice is squashed, phlegmy from the broken nose. “Ask anyone. I know your rule about fighting, Maz.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. It’s not really about what size you are, she’s learned over the years, but rather what size you project. And she’s always thought herself ten feet tall. There was a time, once, when her reputation was gigantic, and it didn’t matter what sentients saw when they met her. They knew the truth. “And what of my rule about claiming bounties on my guests, eh?”

Qualto jumps, guilty. “That wasn’t—I didn’t.”

Maz shrugs off his denial and moves closer, unconcerned by the proximity, and looks him in the eye. Willing the truth out of him, if he won’t give it up voluntarily. “Enough of that. Where’d you get the bounty?” 

He stares at her over the puffy mess of his nose, then, seeing his defeat, sighs. “On the Outer Rim, in a cantina. Unofficially. Not always the usual channels in those parts, as you know.”

As she expected. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Seeing her glare, he repeats, frantic. “I don’t! Some uptight Core World uniform. Figured him for system militia. You know a lot of the old Imperials ended up out there. All they’re good for, really, ordering hired guns about. But I wasn't given a name.”

“But you had a rendezvous? Somewhere you were meant to bring the boy?” She leans in, peering at him, searching for some sign he’s lying.

He rolls his neck, uncomfortable. “Right on the edge of charted space, it was. Jakku, or some other desert rock. Had a transmitter. Encrypted signal. Fancy tech for a low-credit job.”

Maz lets out a breath. She can give Han the information when he returns, although it’s not much more than they already knew. The old Imperials have been keeping to the edges of known space for years, and the bright center of civilization all too ready to move on, forget, get on with it. She can feel the shifts happening, the way the Dark draws in what it needs, who it needs; and the balance remains unsettled, everything veering dangerously, teetering, maybe more so since Ben Solo appeared at her door. She doesn’t know how it all fits, but she suspects it does. Has seen enough, lived long enough to recognize the patterns, repeated endlessly, woven and rewoven into the Galaxy, always as though they’re something new. If only she could see the design better now.

“Maz,” Qualto’s saying. Babbling, eyes panicked. Maybe her reputation hasn’t faded as much as she’s assumed. “It won’t happen again. I’ll not trouble the kid. I’ll drop the bounty, whatever you want. Just please, let me go.”

There’s no sincerity in his promises, she senses, and even if there were—she can’t risk it, much as she dislikes to use the Force this way. When she was younger, she had fewer scruples, told herself that this question of the Light versus the Dark was merely a story to keep children well-behaved. But she’s seen much more over the centuries; she knows. It makes it harder now, to step away from the Light, knowing what she does. “I’ll let you go,” she promises before she touches Qualto’s brow, slick with perspiration. “You don’t remember,” she tells him, rooting through the fibers of his thoughts, pulling them up by the roots where she must. “You don’t remember the boy and you don’t remember the bounty. When you leave here, you will go to your ship and never return.”

The bounty hunter’s eyes are foggy, dazed when he looks back at her. “I don’t remember,” he repeats dully, blinking. “I’ll go to my ship and never return.” 

Maz pulls free away from the man’s thoughts, away from his harsh childhood out in one of the mining colonies, the gangs he fell in with as a young man, not any older than Ben or Armitage, how he learned to make a living with a blaster in his hand. It’s all business, Qualto’s life, and business drives her, too, as it always has. That law, above all others, rules here, as it does most planets. She has never apologized for that or for herself.

Nonetheless, weariness settles heavy and woolen over her as she leaves the room. ME is waiting patiently outside. “He can have his armor and weapon,” Maz directs her. “And escort him to his ship. He won’t be back here.”

Leaving the droid to her duties, Maz doesn’t return to the front hall. Instead, she wanders, as she sometimes allows herself to do, through the narrow corridors, tracing the stone walls with one outstretched hand. She has a distant sense of calamity, destruction, and has for months now. It may only be an echo, a might-have-been, as those ripples are still running through the Force. There are still those gathering shadows, however, still that deathless voice out in the woods, a scar left by a long-forgotten conflict, the damage deep. The Dark likes to live in those sorts of places, she’s found, in old wounds, in the decay. It had been too much to hope that it wouldn’t find Ben Solo and see an opportunity in him, the chance to free itself. 

But maybe that’s the point, she’s mused more than once. Maybe he’s meant to face it.

“He isn’t ready,” a morose voice says next to her, ringing hollow.

“Don’t you make me get a broom, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Maz threatens without turning her head. Ghosts have long clustered around her home, the footprints of Force users long dead layered thick. She’s not accustomed to them being this _talkative_ , however. And these particular spirits are new additions. More guests and more trouble. “I’m in no mood.”

The ghost falls silent for several steps before daring to speak again, “The Dark calls to him.”

She rubs her temples. Swears softly. She will go away after this, maybe return to piracy or simply visiting. There are some friendly faces she wouldn’t mind seeing again. And some friendly bodies, while she’s at it. “It calls to all of us. That is its nature. We choose the Light and keep choosing it. The point was not never to _hear_.”

“He’s tempted, as Anakin was. By attachment.” 

Maz glances at him. Unlike Anakin, Obi-Wan’s affect doesn’t change with his moods; he is forever the careworn hermit. He looks as old as he ever has today, his starlight eyes as tired as she feels. If that’s what waits in the after, she’d as soon give herself to the Force, allow herself to be fragmented and dispersed throughout this Galaxy she loves, to live on the surface of a star and inside the petals of a snowbloom and to ride around, mite-small, on a bantha’s back. Better that than to be dragged back into awareness time and again to relive her regrets and failures, to watch, helpless, ineffectual, as the pattern resets and continues. She doesn’t voice the thought, however. Only says, pointed, “It wasn’t _attachment_ that made him fall.”

She’s not a Jedi for countless reasons, although maybe that above the rest. The Light calls her, but its ascetic, sanctimonious Knighthood never has. “Knowing, loving, even having—these things can be of the Light. Your apprentice sees that, and you must by now, too.” Attachment, after all, saved Luke Skywalker’s life. She purses her lips. “But you didn’t come here to debate the philosophy.”

“The boy’s feelings are strong. It would be easy to manipulate him the way Sidious did his apprentice,” Obi-Wan says.

“You forget that he has already faced temptation. That’s more than many could say.”

The ghost next to her hides his hands in his robes, a habit from when he was alive, she believes. “It was simply the first test. There will be more. And if he fails—”

If he fails, they’re all in danger.

Maz shakes her head. “He won’t fail.” She’s felt it, the swirl of possibilities around Ben Solo, his future vast and unknowable, but she’s sure of this, regardless. He can succeed; he will. “If you won’t believe me, don’t you have faith in Anakin? He will guide Ben now that he can reach him again.”

Obi-Wan sighs, the sensation like the stirring of an evening breeze. “Anakin is—conflicted. As he always was. He fears for the boy.”

“And here I thought one might find peace after this life,” she does observe now and laughs, rueful. Her life was much simpler when she denied this, her connection to the Force. Business is so much simpler.

“The balance—“ he begins to say.

“I know,” Maz allows. “But the young must be allowed to find their way. And fail if they must. Or we will continue repeating the old mistakes and drive them to the same hurts.”

They stand without speaking in the corridor, this part of the castle abandoned except for them. If anyone happens upon her, it probably won’t surprise them to find her talking to herself. Her people are used to her eccentricities and her guests—well, they learn or they move on. “There will be another,” Obi-Wan offers, looking down at her, his expression hopeful. “As strong with the Force as he is.”

“There is always another,” she reminds him. Not voicing the question:  _should there be, given what we do to them?_ “But I’m not giving up on the one here. Not yet.”

Obi-Wan only bows his head in acknowledgment, not speaking. He has already begun to wane. Typical, of ghosts, to vanish when they start to lose the argument.

“You’re wrong, you know, about the other boy,” she presses before he fades completely. Feeling stubborn. She thinks of Armitage, the way he holds fast to Ben, and has time and again since they arrived, the two of them gripping each other’s hands, white-knuckled. The links she’s seen between them, that she saw immediately, made of stronger stuff than she could have expected. “Ben’s attachment to him isn’t a weakness.”

 _You may be right_ , Maz feels more than hears, and the edge of skepticism accompanying it. _I sincerely hope you are._

And then she is alone again in the corridor, the life of the castle and the woods beyond pulsing around her, vibrant, ancient, steadfast. She reaches deep, finding an underground stream, tree roots, and the rich, shifting earth, new life and the remains of old, cycling, in flux. There has always been more than the Jedi and the Sith, she reminds herself. The Light and the Dark extends far beyond them, expanding in either direction through time, the two always intertwined, weaving and unweaving. The only constants: life and death and change. She has known this all of her long life, even when she didn’t have the language for it, couldn’t give it voice until she had seen more of the Galaxy. 

It is that, the machinations of the universe, but also this, this square of earth, the small, particular lives in it, the ones lingering and those passing through, their questions, always the same questions. It’s the choices of one child or two, of every child in every system, charted or uncharted, no matter who their parents are or grandparents, no matter who they’ve been made to be. And never mind prophecy, never mind the proclamations of half-buried philosophies. It can be that simple, _is_ that simple, sunlight and ferns and the sound of water. No destiny handed down from on high. Life and living. She has always thought that, much as she believes in those who serve the Light.

That is why, in the end, she agreed to this, not just a favor to an old friend, trouble or no trouble. It’s why her home has always been open to the lost and wandering, if only for a night, countless faces she’s never seen again and long forgotten. She has never needed to know their particular stories to understand that sometimes this is where the Force leads, to unexpected places and deep into the trees, off the path, the one place they can ask: _now?_

“And _t_ _hat_ is the last word,” she says aloud, to no one, and returns to it, the daily business. Hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 More soon.
> 
> ([Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/callmelyss1))


	4. Chewbacca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Han and Chewbacca return to Takodana.

Han’s drumming an off-tempo tattoo against the _Falcon’s_ primary console.

The beat begins well before they drop out of hyperspace, the freighter hurtling at top speeds towards a little blue and green planet on the other side of the Galaxy, and grows louder, more erratic, staccato, as they approach Takodana. In a way, Chewbacca muses, it sounds almost like rainfall on leaves. Specifically: fat drops on the upper canopy, the sort that fall at the beginning of the wettest season, an augur of the downpours to come. 

The old ache for his birth planet, for Kashyyyk, runs through him, although it’s quieter, gentler than in decades past. There were times when he never thought he would see it, or his family, again. He doesn’t fear that now or worry for his people’s freedom as he once did. They have it and will have it, they’ve seen to that. Will fight for it again, if necessary.

His other family, the small, jittering man next to him, requires his more immediate attention, however. Han fusses with a few of the controls. “This is sticking,” he says of the activation switch for the tractor beam projector.

It isn’t, and they haven’t used the beam in years, but Chewbacca humors him. “ _I’ll take a look when we land._ ” Adds: “ _He’ll be glad to see us, Han_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, punching a few more keys. “Easy for you to say, _Uncle Chewie_. You’re his favorite.” 

There’s not much bite to it, and he wouldn’t be bothered even if there were; he’s more than familiar with Han’s moods by now, mercurial, the way humans often are. And this is a rarity in the Galaxy, he knows, for Han Solo to be openly _nervous_ , his fingers still twitching on the durasteel console, _tap, t-tap, tap_.

They got word from Maz a few weeks ago that they should return as soon as they could; the message arrived while they were lurking around a grimy cantina on the edge of Hutt Space, waiting for an informant who never showed. Not an unwelcome summons, to his mind. It’s been a sluggish seven months for news, the two of them doing little more than chasing rumors from system to system, and the only certainty seems to be that no one knows much of anything about anything, especially the sect of surviving Imperials calling itself the Order. Even less so this other entity, the new voice of the Dark Side. Sentients won’t even _whisper_ about Snoke, although he did catch skittish glances, minute shudders at the mention of that name.

Whoever wanted Ben Solo is keeping well to the shadows, even more so than the organization Armitage escaped. And no word from Luke either, the last Jedi Master going unnervingly silent.

“ _Tell him the truth_ ,” Chewbacca encourages Han, not for the first time. “ _He’ll understand_.”

His old friend—yes, much older these days, grayer, more tired, and how quickly that has happened, the years coming faster now—shakes his head. Stubborn. “The whole point was not to involve him. Either of them.” 

That was the plan after they had been attacked by mercenary ships, to pursue whoever’s taken out bounties out on Armitage in the hope of learning more, maybe finding the mysterious Order, this new threat. The two of them might do what Leia must not in her official capacity as an elected official, bound by procedure, politics. Go where her people can’t. If the war isn’t over, that concerns all of them, everyone who fought against the Empire and the Sith. But there is also the matter of these two boys, his nephew and the stowaway they’ve claimed as theirs. 

“ _They cannot be pups forever._ ” Ben and Armitage are still quite young by Wookiee standards, but he’s learned, being out in the universe, that childhood is a luxury not always afforded to all, much as his people value it. Luke and Leia had not been much older when he met them, caught in the middle of far worse. “ _Keeping the truth from them will not make them so.”_

Han winces and snorts, not quite a laugh. “C’mon, pal, pull your punches for once.”

He speaks with all his typical bluster, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes and those ever-restless fingers drumming. Chewbacca reaches across the cockpit to pat him on the shoulder, consoling. “ _They’re going to be all right. They have us. And each other._ ”

“Okay, okay. No need to get mushy, Chewie, stars.”

 

* * *

 

A familiar call of “Uncle Chewie!” greets him as the _Falcon_ ’s loading ramp lowers, and he bellows his hellos back at the two younglings waiting for them in the clearing, the lake and Maz’s fortress behind them. He opens his arms to embrace Ben, grown even taller and broader in the intervening months; the boy grabs him back as enthusiastically as he has since he was not yet knee-high. When they part, Chewbacca extends a more cautious hand to Armitage, drawing him in more carefully and ruffling his colorful hair, pleased when Armitage accepts the gesture without distress, showing only a hint of his old hesitation. He looks healthier, too, fuller in the face—sapling-thin as before, but less starved—and his shirt doesn’t hang off him the way it did the last they saw him.

“ _Maz has been taking good care of you_ ,” Chewbacca observes, leaning back to study the two of them more closely. There’s a glimmer of worry between them, faint shadows, some uncertainty in the way they glance both at each other and him, but there’s also the familiar way they gravitate towards one another, standing close, within reach. Still attached at the holster, then, to borrow Han’s words, and no surprise to him.

“She has,” Ben agrees. His eyes narrow, focusing past him, and he says, more loudly, “Kind of her, considering how long we’ve been here.”

“Hey, kiddo. Red,” Han says, coming down the ramp behind him. “How are ya?”

Armitage darts a look between Han and Ben, then back again. He huffs out a breath, displacing his hair. “We’re well, thank you, Captain Solo,” he says, defaulting to his old formality. His expression goes slightly guilty as he adds, “We did have a _minor_ altercation with a—bounty hunter.” His voice meaningful.

With all their long years of smuggling between them, Chewbacca doesn’t need to turn to his partner to know that he’s tensed; they both have, understanding immediately what Armitage hasn’t said, what he deliberately _isn't_ saying: he knows he’s marked.

“That a fact?” Han asks, affecting disinterest.

“Which you’d know if you bothered answering any of my comms.” Ben crosses his arms in front of his chest, fully scowling now, every bit his mother’s son, from his dark eyes to the jut of his lower lip. 

“ _Ben_ ,” Chewbacca says, gently. Not remonstrating him, not exactly, but reminding him of conversations they’ve had in the past. _You know your father cares about you._

 _He has a funny way of showing it_ , Ben shot back more than once. 

“ _I’m sick of this_ ,” he roars back in Shyriiwook now, although they all speak it. Even Armitage looks like he understands, although he may not need words to do so. “You said a few months,” he tells them in Basic, sounding far younger than his now-eighteen years. “You _promised_.” 

“You’re right: I did.” Han raises both hands, a familiar sign of surrender. “Look, kid, we should probably talk. You want to on the _Falcon_? The old girl missed you both.” And they’ll have more privacy than at Maz’s fortress, much as Chewbacca wouldn’t mind an ale and a skewer of roasted gornt.

Ben doesn’t answer; he shuffles his feet in the dust, still glaring. “That's a good idea,” Armitage answers for both of them. He’s wrapped a hand around one of Ben’s. Tugs on it, coaxing. “We should tell you what’s happened, too. Right?” He directs this last, softly, to the boy next to him, who stays sullen and silent for another dragging moment.

“Yeah,” Ben says, finally relenting. He scrubs his eyes with his sleeve. “Yeah, sure, let’s talk.”

 

* * *

 

Chewbacca roams the common area, checking systems as Han relays the events of the past several months, the reports they've followed, the lack of information they’ve found, their general purpose in searching (omitting the specifics), some—but not all, not nearly all—of their fears, Leia’s fears. He adds a clarification or a confirmation from time to time, seeing Ben’s skepticism and Armitage’s wariness when they bring up the topic of the Order. But mostly he lets Han do the talking; it’s almost always easier to let Han do the talking. 

“But the Senate should be investigating, not you,“ Ben protests halfway through. 

Han shakes his head. “They think your mother’s being paranoid. And she’s being blocked by the Centrists.”

“They’ve been infiltrated,” Armitage interjects. He and Ben are sitting at the Dejarik table, drinking tea and caf. He shrugs one shoulder at their startled expressions. “Maz and I talked about it.” 

“When?” Ben asks, surprised.

He takes a generous sip from his cup before responding, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “After the, er, incident. With Qualto.”

“Yeah, about that,” Han says. 

The boys relay the story about the tussle at the sabacc table, Ben with all of his usual feeling, anger warming his voice, but Armitage more haltingly. He studies his hands, the table, answering questions with a few words. Maz had dealt with the man, they said, but neither of them knew exactly how, only that they hadn’t seen him again. Chewbacca can guess. 

That's for the best, for Qualto, whether he knows as much or not. He'll be keeping his arms this way, little as he deserves them.

“It’s been quiet since then,” Armitage volunteers. Deliberately. “No trouble.” 

No one speaks for a moment. Finally, Han clears his throat. “Probably about time we taught you to defend yourselves.” He waves a hand at their immediate objections. “Sure, right, you have your mind powers, and Red can wrestle a man twice his size without thinking twice about it. I’m not talkin’ about that; I’m talkin’ about the universal language. Blasters.”

“You’re going to teach us how to shoot?” Ben’s face brightens immediately, all of his hurt and disappointment vanishing like a vapor trail. He’d been that way as a child, too, easily cheered with a chance to pilot the _Falcon_ or to try some new trick, just wanting, in the end, to be around them, especially Han. _That pup loves you_ , Chewbacca has often told Han, and he would again now but settles for nudging him as he moves past. Then, Ben asks the old, inevitable question: “Does _Mom_ know that you’re going to teach us?”

“No. No, she doesn’t.” Han rubs his face. “I’m a dead man,” he mutters.

“ _Probably_ ,” Chewbacca tells him.  

His mouth twists. “Thanks a lot.” To Ben, he says, “This will be for emergencies only, understand? Like your lightsaber.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Ben agrees, grudging. “But does it mean we can come with you next time? To search for the Order?”

And that will begin another argument—he doesn’t need the Force to sense it, knowing this particular clan of humans as he does. Armitage, he sees, has already crept off, maybe to the ‘fresher or Ben’s old bunk. Following his example, Chewbacca leaves Ben and Han to it, their conversation growing heated again. “Mom was already in the Rebellion when she was my age! And you were enlisted!” echoing down the corridor after him.  

He doesn’t find Armitage in the bunks or the cockpit and turns towards the cargo bay, thinking he may have stepped outside for some fresh air instead. But the smuggling compartments don’t echo in their familiar way when he walks across them, and he pauses, listening, before crouching to pry up one of the panels. “ _Hello, Red,_ ” he rumbles at the bright-haired boy sitting there.

Armitage looks rather small just now, his knees drawn up close, arms hugging them to his chest. He blinks up at him. “Hi,” he says, voice soft.

Chewbacca settles more comfortably on the floor, letting his legs hang down into the compartment. At two hundred and twenty-two years old, he’s somewhat less limber than he once was, but he can still manage this easily enough. “ _Something wrong? Another one of those days?_ ” There had been a period, before they arrived on Takodana, when Red would hide in his bunk for cycles at a time, and they left him alone by common agreement. He has seen his own kind do the same, especially those returning from the war, enslavement. Sometimes they took themselves deep into the trees seeking solitude; sometimes they didn’t return.

“It’s nothing.” Armitage’s face crumples, miserable, belying this, and a minute shudder goes through him. “I’m fine.”

There are more than a few reasons he isn’t, but Chewbacca can name the latest. “ _The man who attacked you_ ,” he tries, speaking slowly, simply, so that Armitage can understand him. “ _You know why, don’t you?”_

He sniffles. “There’s a price on my head. Dead or alive.”

“ _That’s not an easy thing.”_ Even Han, who laughed off Jabba’s threat for years, had chafed under it, always having to watch over his shoulder, the hired guns, Greedo and all the others, who came calling until Boba Fett finally captured him on Bespin.

“No, it’s not,” Armitage agrees. Confesses: “And. I didn’t tell Ben. He doesn’t know.”

“ _Why not?_ ”

He shrugs, inarticulate. “He’d—he’d want to do something about it. But there’s nothing _to_ do, is there? And he could get hurt or.” He picks at the hem of his jumpsuit. “I don’t want him involved with them. The Order.”

 _Can we come with you?_ Ben had asked. The clamor of voices continues down the hall. Probably no one will come looking for them any time soon, father and son too concerned with outshouting each other at the moment. Chewbacca chuffs softly. “ _It’s okay to be afraid_ , _Red,_ ” he offers. 

He doesn’t lift his head, scrubbing at something on his boot with one thumb now. “I know it makes me a coward. Wanting to run. To stay out of it.” 

“ _Charging into battle at the first opportunity doesn’t make you brave_ ,” he says. “ _Sometimes the wisest stay in the trees.”_ Seeing his confusion, he knows it’s too many unfamiliar words and more nuance than he or Ben has been able to teach him, so he repeats, “ _It’s okay to be afraid.”_

“Ben wants to be a hero,” Armitage says. “Like his parents. And Luke Skywalker. And you. I’ve never wanted that, even. Even before, when they told us we had this—this _destiny_. I just wanted to live.”

On Kashyyyk, he would be sort of pup they pushed towards study. Teach him to forage and defend himself, yes, as all pups must learn to do, but he would be better suited to learning, building. These aren’t dishonorable paths to follow; those Wookiees built their great cities, invented their ships and weapons, and elevated their culture. But Chewbacca can’t convey that in the limited Shyriiwook Armitage knows. Rumbles, frustrated. “ _Ben hasn’t known anything else,_ ” he reminds him. “ _He’s heard those stories since he was small. But he won’t think you’re a coward.”_

Armitage shrugs again. “Maybe not.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “He’ll go off and try to save the Galaxy anyway.” _Without me_ , he doesn’t add, but it’s there, too, the fear of being left behind, abandoned, forgotten.

Always so insecure, these young ones. But it’s difficult, Chewbacca understands, without a family or a clan or even a proper homeworld—the anxiety of finding a place. “ _I have something for you_ ,” he says, remembering, and straightens, heading towards his bunk.

They had made the stop, early on, within a month of leaving Takodana. He returns with the little rectangle of plasteel and hands it down to Armitage, who stares at it.

“Is this real?” he asks. “I mean, it’s official?”

“ _It’s real_ ,” Chewbacca confirms. They had to forge most of the documents, yes, and paid the clerk no small number of hush credits, but it came from a New Republican office and will scan cleanly in any system. “ _Not a fake._ ” 

Armitage swallows hard, continuing to study the identicard, his own grave face staring back at him. “It says I’m from Kashyyyk. That’s—that’s your planet, isn’t it?”

“ _That’s right_. _If you’re ever in trouble, you can go there and find help_.” He’s warned them, Malla and Lowbacca, about Armitage’s Imperial accent, unpopular among his kind, and his attitude, occasionally still difficult.

He draws a careful finger across the Aurebesh lettering, tracing it. “And this here? Instead of a surname?”

“ _My clan’s name_.” It was Han’s idea, in case they ever need to make a claim on Armitage with the New Republic—or anyone else. Even though he’s of age now, it seemed safer. And less complicated than making him a Solo.

Armitage reaches up with one hand, stretching, and it’s clear what he wants; Chewbacca grabs his wrist and hauls him out of the compartment without effort. He's light, tall as he is. But it surprises him when the boy wraps his arms around him, pressing close and burying his damp face in his fur, the way Ben does. “Thank you,” he says, voice muffled.

He circles those narrow shoulders, hugging back. “ _You’re welcome, Red_.”

 

* * *

 

The four of them pass a quiet night, eventually venturing up to the fortress and seeing Maz, who greets him as warmly as ever, and he swings her around, knowing she likes that. It’s nice, he thinks, to spend some time planetside, among friends. They have a talkative meal with the boys, who chatter about the time they’ve spent on Takodana, camping and exploring. Armitage, more enthusiastic than Chewbacca’s ever seen him, describes his current project, a pair of speeders he’s building from discarded parts. Ben answers Han’s questions about the sentients he’s met, the two of them falling back into a cautious sort of truce, unspoken, and putting aside the most recent hurts for the moment. Impossible to miss the mindful way Han talks to Ben, touches him. 

 _I thought we were making progress_ , he remarked not long ago. Wearily. _But it’s two parsecs forward and one parsec back with the kid_. _I’m not sure I’m ever going to make him happy_. It’s a pattern between them, Chewbacca doesn’t tell him, recognizable, constant, like any other in the universe. How it was with Leia, too often.

Then, he has heard the two of _them_ talking more, too, Han making his evening calls to Coruscant sometimes every cycle. More than “checking in” requires. He doesn’t comment on it. They’re still orbiting each other, he knows, the scoundrel and the princess, even if neither of them has admitted yet. 

“I haven’t heard from Uncle Luke,” Ben confides softly, towards the end of the evening. That loss clear on his face, in his eyes. Armitage, on his other side, rests his head on his shoulder and shuffles closer. “Not since you came to get me, Dad.”

“It’s not just you.” Han offers a wry smile. “I don’t think anyone’s gotten news from Luke in a while. Maybe your mother.”

“She hasn’t said,” Ben murmurs. “I know she can feel him.”

“Yeah, they’ve always been like that.” There’s no bitterness in Han’s voice, nor jealousy, and hasn’t been for years. _Twins, can you believe it?_ he’d told Chewbacca after Endor. _I guess it makes a kind of sense, if you think about it. How they both are_. _You know—annoying._

 _"_ So, about learning to shoot..." Ben's enthusiasm coming back, avid.

"Tomorrow soon enough?"

There are other questions, unasked, the ones he remembers from visiting Ben at the Jedi Temple: _will you stay? How long before you go away again? Can’t I come with you? Please?_ Han may be thinking about them, too. Or else he disorders Ben’s hair from habit, affection worn deep in his eyes. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Chewbacca builds a row of targets out by the Falcon; he fashions them from scrap and empty ration packs, making them vaguely humanoid, while Han retrieves a pair of blasters for Ben and Armitage, older models but in good condition. He makes them show him how to disassemble and reassemble the weapons, to enable and disable the safeties, to change the intensity. Double and triple checks that they’re set lowest, to stun. “Okay,” Han says. “First lesson: never pull the trigger unless you mean it.”

Ben cocks his head. Echoes: “Unless we mean it?”

“Yep. Once the plasma leaves that barrel, that’s it, kiddo. You’ve maimed someone, maybe, or killed them. I hope to hells you never have to do that, but you have to be ready for it when you pull the trigger.”

“But it’s set to stun.” His brow furrows.

Han unholsters his own blaster and studies it, before shooting at one of the targets; the bolt catches it in the chest. “Doesn’t matter,” he explains. “Even set to stun, you can’t do this lightly. You don’t know what will happen when you do.”

Ben nods, expression serious as he studies the weapon in his hand. Armitage hasn’t spoken; he’s looking at his borrowed gun with a peculiar mix of interest and unease. 

“Second lesson,” Han says. “Don’t try to do too much. You don’t have to be a crack shot to make your point, especially if your point is ‘kriff off or else.’ Stormtroopers couldn’t hit the broad side of a bantha; the Empire still ruled the Galaxy for twenty-odd years. Go on: give it a try.”

Ben lifts his blaster and fires at the target directly in front of him; the shot goes wild off to the left and strikes the tree behind it, leaving a scorch mark. “Shit,” he mutters, cheeks reddening.

“Hey, that's not bad for your first time.” Han smiles at him, encouraging. “Red, you’re up.”

“Right,” Armitage says without much enthusiasm. He levels the blaster, takes a breath, exhales, and fires. The bolt catches the target in its improvised head, and if it had eyes in the usual places, it would be very nearly between them.

Chewbacca rumbles in approval, Han lets loose a low whistle, and Ben turns to stare. “So—marksmanship classes, too, huh?”

Armitage admires his boots. “Required, yes.”

“Top of your class,” Ben says. Not asking.

He hesitates, then nods. “Since I was ten. They were starting us on rifles when I left.”

“Really remind me never to piss you off, Red.” Han laughs and claps him gently on the back. “Care to show us some more?”

“ _If you want_ ,” Chewbacca adds, remembering yesterday’s conversation. His reticence.

He pauses, considering this. “I can try.” He lifts his weapon again, fires several shots in succession, neatly hitting each target in the forehead, just as he did the first. 

“You’re incredible.” Ben smiles at Armitage, openly admiring. 

But at the compliment, the other boy goes paler in the early morning light, his mouth taut. “Thanks.”

“ _Try shooting to disable them, Red_ ,” Chewbacca suggests. “ _The knees_. _Or hands, to disarm them_.”

Armitage frowns, waiting while Ben translates the unfamiliar words, then meets Chewbacca’s eyes, relief on his face. “Disable them. Right. I can try that.”

He alternates on the next round of shots, aiming some at the “wrist” and others at the knee. These are less precise, less practiced, working against habit, and his expression turns thoughtful. “They never taught us to do that,” he says.

They practice more, Chewbacca intervening with Han from time to time to adjust their stances and posture, make recommendations. Armitage pauses in his own attempts to help Ben, straightening his elbow for him, steadying his hand. “Easy. Deep breath,” he murmurs, standing close. “Like when you’re meditating, right? Don’t think so much.” 

Ben’s shots fly somewhat truer after that. 

Nonetheless, after a few hours and only moderate improvement, he sighs, exasperated, and scowls at his blaster. “I miss my lightsaber.”

“You weren’t an expert at that right away either,” Han reminds him. “You studied; you got better. And you didn’t lose any fingers, thank stars.”

“No,” Ben allows, making a sour face at the joke. “But I’m pretty close now. Not like this.” He raises his weapon to fire one last time. It’s a lazy, careless shot and it catches the target’s metal post, ricocheting off of it and bouncing back towards them. 

“ _Ben!_ ” Chewbacca roars, moving to drag the boy out of the way and flinching, anticipating the hit—even plasma set to stun hurts. 

But there’s no sting. The bolt never lands; it’s suspended in midair, a meter from them.

Ben’s standing next to him, hand raised, eyes wide and focused on the beam. Sweat is beading at his temples.

“Stars,” Armitage breathes. “Did you know you could do that?”

“Never tried before,” Ben whispers back.

“Can you—move?” Han asks. He takes an uncertain step towards his son, as if to reach for him.

“I think so.” He moves to the side, cautiously, gaze never leaving the blaster bolt. Chewbacca does the same. “I, uh. I’m going to let go now.” And he does, letting it strike the ground behind them harmlessly. 

“Huh,” Han says. "Well, that could be useful."

 

* * *

 

“ _Jakku_ ,” Chewbacca repeats mournfully. " _You're sure?_ " He's never enjoyed desert planets.

He and Han are sitting across from Maz in a corner of the hall, their conversation masked by the clamor around them. 

“That’s where Qualto was supposed to meet his client,” she confirms. 

“Makes sense,” Han muses. “Jakku’s about as nowhere as you can get and still be in a charted system. If I was spending most of my time in the Unknown Regions, I might do business there, too.”

“I know it isn’t much information. I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more.” They’ve both known Maz long enough to understand that she means it. _She acts mercenary, but she cares,_ Han told Chewbacca once, and that’s plain now, her concern both for the children under her supervision and for what all this means. “Whoever’s behind this is playing a very close hand.”

“Every gambler has to make a move eventually,” Han says. “And it’s more of a lead than we’ve had in months. A lot more than we know about Snoke, too. I’m guessing you haven’t heard anything?”

She shakes her head, regretful. “No one seems to know that name—and if they do, they’re not talking. Nothing from Dathomir or Mustafar either. The old Dark Side cults are quiet. Whoever Snoke is, they’re something new. Or very, very old.”

Han laughs, humorless. “If Snoke’s old by _your_ standards, I’m worried. I think we’re out of our depth on that one. Whatever Luke’s doing at the Temple, I hope he comes through.” Worry flickers over his face. Not doubt, not yet. “Is it better, do you think, to take the boys to Chandrila? Or, hells, they could go to Kashyyyk if they needed to, right, Chewie?”

“ _If you leave Ben with Malla, you may not get him back_ ,” Chewbacca warns him. His mate has asked after her ‘adopted son’ at every opportunity since Ben visited for a summer when he was six. “ _But they would be safe enough there, yes.”_

 _“_ I don’t know that Ben is finished with this place yet—or it with him,” Maz says slowly. “He may feel differently, but he’s welcome to stay. Armitage, too. His ‘clients’ will miss him when he goes.” She’s told them, in some detail, about the steady stream of droids coming to their young tinkerer for maintenance and upgrades. “Just remember to _ask_ them this time, Han Solo. They’re old enough to decide for themselves where to go. And I think they’ll do well no matter where they are.”

“Yeah,” Han agrees, although he sounds unconvinced. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Chewbacca knows without asking that he’s still mulling it over as they walk out to the _Falcon_ , not speaking, falling into the comfortable silence of long association, listening for Ben and Armitage as they approach. Both boys have been spending much of their time on and around the ship, even sleeping in Ben’s bunk the last few nights. They’re sitting together in the _Falcon_ ’s shadow now, legs outstretched, shoulders touching as they talk. Ben nudges Armitage gently with an elbow; they both laugh. Han pauses, lingering, studying them, not yet intruding. “I don’t want to drag them into this yet,” he says. “Got a bad feeling.”

“ _They’re already part of it_ ,” Chewbacca says, although he feels much the same. He doesn’t lament the years he’s spent with Han, the long fights, the time away. And he won’t grieve over the time they’ve given these past months trying to prevent more, or worse. But he doesn’t want that for Ben and Armitage any more than he does for his children and grandchildren. “ _That wasn’t your choice. Or theirs_.”

Han sighs. “Stop making so much sense, fuzzball. It's aggravating.”

He tries to sound solemn. “ _I’m sorry._ ”

“Like hells you are.” He scratches his neck, reluctant. Ben and Armitage haven’t noticed them yet, distracted by each other in the way young ones so often are. 

“ _Let me talk to him, then_ ,” Chewbacca offers. 

“No, I should,” Han says, although he doesn’t sound convinced. 

“ _You have,”_ he points out. “ _And you will again before we go. But I’ll talk to him now_. _He’s my pup to protect, too. They both are._ ”

“You always were a mother hen.” He can hear the concession _—_ and the gratitude _—_ under the joke.

He chuffs laughter. “ _I have to be._ _Humans require so much attention.”_

The boys look up as they approach; worry crosses Armitage’s face and distrust Ben’s. “Thought you might show me those speeders of yours, Red,” Han says, his voice light. “I’ve built a few of my own, you know. Maybe I could help.”

Armitage glances between them, frowning, suspicious, before climbing to his feet. “Okay, yeah. That’d be. That’d be great.”

Chewbacca settles next to Ben in the grass, not speaking, watching the two of them go. Armitage’s voice carries back; he’s saying something about the ignition, how he thinks he has the fuel feeds too long. 

“ _You’re leaving again_ ,” Ben says. Not quite an accusation; he sounds tired, even in Shyriiwook. Resigned. “ _Did he ask you to tell me?_ ”

He rumbles an emphatic 'no.' “ _I wanted to talk to you. We haven’t really yet, have we?”_

“ _I guess not,_ ” Ben allows. Adds: “ _You talked to Armitage the other day, didn’t you? He showed me his identicard_. _Thank you._ ” He trills this last warmly, as expressive as he’s always been in Shyriiwook, more natural with the language than any other non-Wookiee Chewbacca’s known. Then, he has been speaking it since he was a toddler.

“ _You’re both welcome.”_ He pauses, considering how to proceed. Ben has always done best when they talk directly, quickly disturbed when people are evasive or unforthcoming. The breeze rustles the leaves around them, the trees swaying slightly. “ _Do you like it here?_ ”

“ _Mostly_ ,” Ben says. “ _Sometimes it’s—boring_. _And I don’t know if I’m learning what I need to learn. But I like the lake and the trees. And Maz. And—“_

_“And Armitage.”_

His ears go red. “ _Yeah, and Armitage. I like being with him here. But sometimes, I think. Well, he seems like he wants to leave, too_.”

“ _Has he said he wants to leave?”_ Chewbacca asks. That is, he recalls, another of Ben’s habits, anticipating other people’s unhappiness, their rejection. “ _Have you asked him?”_

“Well, no, not exactly,” he admits in Basic. “But I can tell sometimes, the way he looks at the ships. Like he misses being on one.”

“ _It’s not easy, living on a planet after you’ve spent a lot of time on starships. Or the reverse. There’s a sadness sometimes, that happens_.” Sadness isn’t the exact word; it’s a particular melancholy, like a too-long rainy season, or too much time spent on the ground, but he knows Ben will understand his meaning, will feel it, cold raindrops on falling on leaves, a particular longing for the canopy.  

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ben acknowledges. “ _Yeah, that makes sense_.”

“ _That doesn’t mean he wants to leave, though. Do you?”_

“ _I don’t like being left behind_.” And there is, again, the obstinate way his lower lip protrudes, how his eyes shine. Always so much feeling there. Ben would have made an excellent Wookiee, he’s thought more than once. “ _Or lied to_.”

“ _I know.”_ Chewbacca wraps an arm around him. “ _He wanted to keep you safe_ ,” he says, of Han. “ _Both of you_. _That’s what you do for pups. Even if they don’t always like it. Maybe especially then_. _T_ _rust that_. _He's afraid for you._ ”

Ben lets out a loud, frustrated growl, not exactly a curse. Loosely translated, it means _thunderclap_ , but less literally, it's  _I don’t like this._ He’s used it himself in the past to warn those around him of his strong displeasure.

“ _We’re not leaving yet_ ,” he tries to console him. “ _And when we do, you can go somewhere else, if you want. Chandrila. Or Coruscant_. _Or Kashyyyk_.”

“ _Kashyyyk._ ” Ben grins, mood lifting again. “ _Armitage_ is _an honorary Wookiee now, isn’t he?_ ”

“ _Just like you_.” He’d told him that when he was five and disappointed at his distinct lack of fur. “ _But he’s scrawny, even for a adopted Wookiee. People are going to think you’re not caring properly for your mate, Ben Solo_ ,” he chastises him.

“ _He’s not my mate!”_ Ben insists, vehement, as he has before, his face almost glowing with embarrassment. _“_ We’re—still figuring it out. What it is,” he admits, switching again to Basic, his voice raspy from growling and bellowing. He glances away, pensive. “And I. I don’t want to scare him.”

Chewbacca tousles his hair; it’s longer now, almost to his shoulders. “ _You’re a smart pup. You’ll figure it out. And when you do, I will take you to Kashyyyk to hunt your quillarat, I promise_. _”_

Ben’s half-hearted protests and his rumbling laughter ring out against the trees, and he feels sure, as he often has, that deep-in-the-sap-and-roots certainty, what Han has often called foolish optimism but he knows as fact, that they’ll be all right. The trees will grow, and the Galaxy will turn, as it always has, and the _Falcon_ will keep flying _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 More soon.
> 
> ([Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/callmelyss1))


	5. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben faces his choices—and a test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by the wonderful and talented [xylavie](https://twitter.com/xylavie).
> 
> I've added a few content warnings in the end notes this week, friends. Everything falls under the existing tags, but please proceed carefully.

The _Falcon_ hasn’t moved. It’s still sitting in its clearing, barely visible from Maz’s fortress; the battered hull just shows through the leaves, pockmarked gray in the green. Ben doesn’t mean to keep checking. Only he can’t quite help it, the gesture nearly automatic. His chin keeps jerking towards the open window, towards that spot in the trees, his eyes shifting from the text Maz has loaned him, a treatise written by the scholar she’s arranged for him to meet next week. It’s not dull, or no more so than anything Luke had him copy for the Temple in meticulous calligraphy with the acrid smell of the ink in his nose, the pen fragile in his hand, but he can’t quite focus on it, not knowing, not anticipating—

His father said they would stay.

Not, he’d cautioned Ben, indefinitely. They couldn’t afford to do that with another lead from Maz to follow. But they could give him a few weeks, maybe a month, to make up his mind. For _them_ to make up _their_ minds, although he hasn’t asked Armitage yet. Where he would want to go. _If_ he would want to go wherever Ben goes next. He’s tried, once or twice, but the question keeps sticking in his throat, like a too-large piece of honey cake. For once, no voice but his own is plaguing him: _what if he says ‘no,’ what if he says ‘no,’ whatifwhatifwhatif._

The ship’s still there. 

Ben closes the slim volume, less gently than he intends, and winces at the sharp sound it makes as its fragile covers snap together. “Sorry,” he murmurs to it. “It’s not you.” He stands and stretches.  

This part of the castle doesn’t see much traffic, he determined in their first weeks on Takodana; it’s one of the higher floors, and most of the rooms remain unoccupied, untouched. It makes for a quiet spot to read, and, once or twice, he’s come up here with Armitage, too—his cheeks warm, thinking about those rainy afternoons. Long, lazy kisses. Clever hands in his hair, on his waist, against his chest. 

Although, for all that, the beds pushed together in their room and close to a year of sleeping curled against him, their breathing synchronous, Ben doesn’t know what or if. 

He descends the castle’s narrow, winding staircase. Nods hello to a droid and greets a Jawa, Iatcha, chief mechanic on one of the salvage crews that does business with Maz. The pace of life here has grown familiar, the mercenaries and travelers and traders who come through every few months. The rhythm of it is so different from the Jedi Temple or life on the _Falcon_ , but this is part of him now, too, no matter where they go next: the lake and fortress and the people, all of it.  

Musing about this, he almost collides with Armitage, who’s hurrying in the opposite direction, taking two stairs at a time. Ben steadies him, grabbing for his shoulders. “Woah—hey,” he says, trying to stay upright. “You all right?”

Both Armitage’s cheeks and shirt are streaked with engine grease, his coveralls are stained, muddy at the knees, and his hair is wild, tousled. He’s gasping, almost completely breathless, but he’s also smiling, practically _beaming_ , at him, more carefree than he’s ever looked, entirely unbothered by their near disaster and the state of his clothes. He’s radiating pride and giddiness and excitement in the Force; the feeling of it bounces out from him, like lights reflecting on water, like shooting stars, so strongly Ben doesn’t know that he could block out it, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to. “ _There_ you are.” Armitage grabs his hand. “Come on, come on. You have to see.”

Ben allows himself to be dragged down the stairs and out of the fortress, past the gates. He can barely keep up with Armitage’s quick strides or his chatter, the steady stream of technobabble more incomprehensible than any language he’s tried to learn. He doesn’t ask him to slow down in either case, happy to be carried along with whatever this is and by the hand locked tight around his. It’s only when they round the side of the castle that he understands: the two speeders Armitage’s been building out of spare parts are hovering perfectly in place, both of their engines rumbling steadily. 

“See, see? They _work._ ” He makes a small, sweeping gesture, the thrill of accomplishment bubbling over from him and into Ben.

His enthusiasm would be infectious even without the Force—Ben grins and drags him close for a hug, heedless of the mess. “Of course they do. You built them.”

Armitage makes a token noise of disagreement in his ear. “Not everything I make works. Those repulsorlift autowaiters were a complete catastrophe. Maz will never let me live that down.”

“It was a good idea, though,” he insists. He pecks his cheek. “And they only caught fire a little.” 

“About that.” He leans back to look him in the eye. “How brave are you feeling?”

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?” 

Armitage’s smile widens. “Fancy a race around the lake?”

 

* * *

 

Ben doesn’t remember his first speeder ride, although he’s heard the story enough times that he can picture it: Han taking him through the streets of Hanna City when he was three years old. He’d been carefully strapped to his father’s chest at the time, the noise and wind muffled by a small helmet. Even so, his mother had been waiting at the end of it, still dressed for whatever political event she’d arrived from, arms folded. He’s never needed anyone to describe the expression on her face. Has been on the receiving end of that disapproval too many times since.

This he won’t forget: the air buffeting his skin and clothes, the grips of the handlebars under his palms, how the forest streams by on either side, only a verdant blur. The speeder accelerates at his slightest urging; for all that it looks like it came out of the junk heap (as it did), it flies like the sleekest model on the market, moving effortlessly over the glassy surface of the water. A _whoop_ rolls up and out of Ben’s throat—uncontainable—as he guns it. He hears an answering cry from Armitage as he comes up on his right, passing him, the flash of his hair in his peripheral vision. They take the wide turn together, following the curve of the shoreline. Maz’s fortress disappears around the bend, and an effervescent tremble runs through him. The same one he gets when piloting the _Falcon_. _Possibility_. They can go wherever they want, as far as the fuel will take them.

They don’t wing off into the trees, even though they could, instead hugging the lake’s sandy edge. When they’ve circled an inlet and returned to the main body, almost a straightaway, Armitage calls over, taunting, “That the best you’ve got, Solo?”

“Not even close!” he shouts back. Coaxes another burst of speed from the machine under him, shooting forward. There’s a headwind coming over the water, and he dips under it, taking the speeder as near the surface as he dares. He can feel Armitage behind him, not overtaking him, but keeping pace, their twin shadows jetting below them. 

It’s only when they’ve cleared the lake’s edge that Ben gives a thought to slowing down; the brakes, he realizes, are less responsive than the accelerators, and he twists the steering hard to keep the speeder out of the trees, taking it in a tight corkscrew to kill his momentum before it comes to a full stop. To his relief, Armitage manages the same with only a sharp turn, if somewhat wildly; he almost tumbles off the side as he does. 

Nonetheless, he leaps off the bike smoothly and throws both arms around Ben. “That was fantastic. _You’re_ fantastic,” he declares.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Me? You’re the one who built those from scrap. Kriff.” He leans in to kiss him, once quickly and then again, longer. Thinks he can taste the wind and water on his lips. Murmurs, when they part, “May want to work on the braking part, though.”

“It’s a good note. I’ll double-check the cylinders,” Armitage agrees. “But after that. Would you, ah. Maybe want to go for a longer ride? Get away from the castle for a little while? Go camping?”

Ben doesn’t turn his head; the _Falcon_ is still there, he knows. Chewbacca’s working on it, as he always seems to be and has been for longer than he’s been alive. _We’re not going anywhere just yet. Take some time to think it over_ , _kid,_ Han told him. It’ll be there. They will. “Sure,” he says. “That, uh. That sounds great.” They can ask Maz for supplies and food.

In answer, Armitage kisses him again, lingering, slow, hands sliding over his shoulders. It’s too tempting to lick into his mouth, to hold him, to note how neatly his narrow hips fit in his hands. To feel the sliver of warm skin where his shirt’s ridden up slightly. He makes a small, eager sound against Ben’s tongue, leaning into him.

There’s the all-too-familiar sound of a throat clearing behind them, and they leap apart. “Dad!” Ben yelps. His face is hot, and he doesn’t need to turn to know Armitage is even redder than he is.

Han’s slouching against the side of the fortress, both amused and stern. “Boys. You test-flew the speeders?”

“Yes, sir,” Armitage says. “They ran well, I think.”

“Yeah, no problems,” Ben affirms. He can’t quite meet his father’s eyes. “We were going to take them out for the night, actually. Maybe go camping? If that’s okay.”

“That a fact?” Han muses. “Guess that’d be all right. But I’d like to have another look at ‘em before you do.”

“Yes, sir,” Armitage repeats. All but standing at attention. “Of course, sir. Whatever you think best. Sir.”

Han laughs. “All right, all right, at ease, Red,” he says. “Go on and get, both of you, while I make sure these things are sky-worthy.” 

 

* * *

 

After his father has deemed the bikes fit to take out, after Maz has provided them with enough food for three days, as well as a tent and bedrolls, and after they’ve grudgingly accepted a short-range comm to bring with them—then, finally, when the sun is starting to dip behind the fortress, they take off again. Not as fast this time, more carefully. Ben leads, feeling his way with the Force, guiding them as far as he can from that cold spot in the woods, with its slick, beckoning voice. (And that, he understands, that he will have to deal with before he goes, wherever he goes, something in him whispering _soon_ and _we’ll see_. _Not tonight_ , he tells it, stubborn. _Not yet_.) 

Instead, they go over the lake and into the trees on the far shore, the speeders whirring gently through the forest and up the hillside. Part of him would take them farther still, let them see Takodana and all its untouched wonder, but for now, this is enough, the castle out of view again and the lake glittering in the starlight.

He builds and lights a fire while Armitage sets up the tent; the two of them move in comfortable silence. Insects hum around them, and far off a nightbird calls, but it’s a still, peaceful night all the same, and an unusual calm comes over him, an assurance that they won’t be disturbed here. The living Force is sunk deep into the earth with the tree roots. He feels little of the usual echoes, those traces of the Force-users who walked here before him. Rather, the energy gathers far more thickly around the trees, which thrum with it. Nearly singing, melodic.

“You okay?” Armitage asks, coming to sit next to him, close enough that their knees almost touch. He brings the basket of food with him and starts to rummage through it, unpacking plates, a thermos, two savory pies, cloth napkins, and sweet rolls, his favorite.

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Just listening.”

“To the Force?”

“To the trees. Well, the trees in the Force.”

He frowns with his usual consternation. “The _trees_ have the Force?”

“Everything _has_ the Force,” Ben reminds him. “Just not everyone feels it. But these trees might—sense it. It’s hard to tell. They’re old, though. Very old.”

Armitage studies the forest around them, considering. They’re not quite in a clearing, the foliage dense overhead, but there’s not much undergrowth here, and it was simple enough to find a level spot to camp. “I can believe that,” he says. Then, more thoughtfully: “It’s funny, isn’t it? A whole, huge crowded galaxy, and some places are still like this. Makes you wonder what else is out there.” He doesn’t look up at the sky, but his face has that same quality as when he watches the ships arriving and departing.

“Yeah.” Something goes tight under Ben's sternum. “Yeah, it does.”

They dig into dinner then, Armitage eating with his usual enthusiasm, while Ben picks at his food. It’s good, as always, but there’s that lump again, clotted behind his tonsils. He lets Armitage do most of the talking, first about the speeder bikes and then a rambling yarn about a Wampa and a smuggler and a shipment of frostplums. One of the droids he’s done work for shared it with him. They’re both laughing by the end, Armitage hardly able to finish.

“Is that true?” Ben asks when he’s managed it. “They spooked a Wampa with a Kloo horn?”

“I’m not sure if it’s true,” he admits. “You don’t think of droids telling tall tales, but maybe this one does. I suppose they’re as able as we are. It’s a good story anyway.”

“It is.” He studies him for a moment, the soft cant of his mouth, relaxed. “You really like them, don’t you? Droids, I mean. You like being around them. It’s not just for credits.” 

“I do. I always have.“ Armitage dabs his mouth with the napkin, fastidious, as he is. “Before, at the Academy—they were always kind to me. The medbay droids in particular, but all of them. Even the mousers, in their way.”

Ben reaches over to squeeze his hand. Strokes his knuckles, reassuring him: _That’s over. You’re here and you’re safe_.

He smiles at him, grateful. “It’s been almost a year, you know,” he says. “Since I left. It hardly seems possible.”

A year, too, since he left the Temple, since he told Luke about Snoke. It had felt like the end of everything, then, stepping onto the _Falcon_ and leaving his training behind. But if he grabs now for the spot where his Padawan’s braid once wound out of his hair, where he cut it out, he can’t find it. The place where he was connected to Luke, that broken bond, has also eased, feeling less like a open gash. More like scar tissue: thicker, slightly numb, sometimes aching. In the intervening cycles, there have been those weeks on the _Falcon_ , these months on Takodana, his mother, his father, Uncle Chewie, and him. Armitage. 

“It really does,” Ben murmurs. Then, remembering, he shuffles in his pocket. “That reminds me. I, er. Have something for you. A gift.” He’s been carrying it around for a while now, since he traded one of Maz’s visiting friends, a Cerean mystic, for it. He wasn’t sure when to offer it to him, not since he confessed he doesn’t know his proper date of birth. He’d considered saving it for a Life Day gift, but, then, he’s never celebrated that either. Although maybe if they go to Kashyyyk. If.

“A gift? For me?” Armitage echoes, surprised. His eyes widen when he sees the glowing crystal. “ _Oh_. Is that—?”

“Kyber,” he confirms and gently sets it in his upturned palm. In response, the crystal chimes softly and glows brighter. It’s white, their natural color, not chosen by a Padawan or a Jedi, not bled red by a Sith, not intended for anyone’s lightsaber, although he still thought of that when he held it for the first time. His vision from their first night here: how his saber had been white, like untouched kyber. 

“It’s getting warmer,” Armitage says, marveling at it, turning the crystal over in his hand. It illuminates his face, the sharp planes of it, the slope of his nose dotted with freckles, the delicate bow of his mouth. “Not hot, but warm.”

“They respond to living things and the Force,” Ben explains. “They have their own sort of consciousness, you know. Sometimes they talk to each other. And to sensitives. And they’re connected like everything else. They can feel.” He coughs. “It already knows you a little. I, uh. Told it about you.”

He raises both eyebrows, incredulous. “You told _the kyber crystal_ about me?”

He has these past few weeks, imbuing it with what he knows about Armitage's presence in the Force, the cool, clear colors of him, distinct, even though he can’t see or feel them. The orderly logic of his thoughts, the patterns of him, his hurt, yes, etched deep into him, but also his focus, his peculiar strength, his curiosity about the universe. The crystal had made that same delicate sound it does now, absorbing this, and Ben’s imperative with it that Armitage be kept safe, guarded from the Dark. “Yes.” He blushes. “It’s not the same as—it’s not like mine, in my lightsaber. But it’ll connect you to the Force, even if you can’t sense it. You’ll have a piece of it with you, no matter where you go.”

 _Or what happens_ , he doesn’t add.

“I—Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.” Armitage curls his fingers around the kyber, expression solemn, and slips it into his pocket. Then, he frowns, suddenly pensive. “Ben, there’s—there’s something I need to tell you,” he says at the same time Ben blurts, unable to hold it back any longer, “I need to ask you something.”

They blink at each other, startled. “Oh.” Armitage tilts his head. “What is it?”

“It’s. My dad and Chewie,” he struggles to get the words out. “They’re going to leave again soon and they offered. Well, they said they’d take me somewhere else if I wanted to go. Chandrila or Kashyyyk or, I don’t know. Some other Core planet probably.”

“I see.” His face is carefully blank, the way it used to be most of the time. Ben’s come to think of it as his cadet’s face. “Naturally, you wouldn’t want to say here forever.”

“I like it here,” Ben tells him. Meaning it. Meaning particularly: _I like it here with you_. “But yeah, it’s time to move on, maybe. And I was wondering, if. If you wanted. You could come with me?” He rushes to add: “We could go somewhere you’d like, too. It doesn’t have to be Chandrila, although there’s a good university in Hanna City and Dad says you’d get in easy, and I mean, of course, you would, you’re some kind of engineering genius, I think. But we could go anywhere you wanted and do something else. I don’t mind, so long as.” _So long as we’re together_. He stops himself, not without effort, face and ears burning, and not from the nearby campfire.

“You want me to go with you?” Armitage asks, surprised, his neutral expression vanishing. The look that replaces it is more complicated, unreadable. "Really?"

He stares back at him, equally stunned. _How could he not?_ “Of course I want you to come with me. I lo—“ He bites his lower lip, bruising hard. “Of course I do,” he repeats, hushed.

But if he noticed, _if he heard,_ he doesn’t say anything, simply looks at him, eyes gleaming in the firelight. He swallows, throat bobbing, that long pause unbearable, endless, eons before he answers, at last: “Yes, I. I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” The air leaves Ben’s lungs in a rush, the weight of all that leaving him. His shoulders sag when Armitage nods, emphatic. “Um. Okay. Good. That’s really good.”

Ben means to ask, _what did you need to tell me?_ He does. But before he can voice it, Armitage is shifting closer, bridging the gap between them and cupping his face in his hands. He kisses him shyly at first, but then more urgently, tugging him nearer. He guides one of Ben’s hands under the sleeve of his shirt, letting him feel, for the first time, the raised mark where the Order’s insignia is carved into his skin, the scar thick, knotty, badly healed. The other he encourages under his shirt, against the small of his back, and there are lines there, too, thinner, finer, but still written into him, and the memory of pain with them. 

Ben rubs both, wishes he could mend them now or else erase them altogether, not for how they look or feel, but for what they mean for Armitage, that fear and hurt, and for what they’d tried to make him. It awes him, too, that he’s sharing this with him, showing him what he’s been so careful to hide for months, and Ben kisses him back, trying to convey that, _thank you for trusting me_ , in how he touches him, tender, reverent. Inviting the same in return.

 

* * *

 

Ben wakes with a shudder—although it doesn’t _feel_ like waking, even as he opens his eyes, jerks upright. His dreams didn’t feel like dreams either, everything too stark, too vivid, too _loud_ to be anything like rest. The warble of voices continues in his ears, even as he takes in the room where they’ve lived these past months, real, solid, consistent: the pushed-together beds and the warm yellow stone walls and their belongings spilling over everywhere, the boy splayed next to him, snoring gently. Yes, he’s here; they’re safe. Those are Armitage’s boots by the door; his own are kicked under the desk. Datapads. A short stack of books. The edge of his rucksack sticking out from beneath the wardrobe. A mild breeze comes through the open window, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck.

Even as his breathing slows, his pulse doesn’t; his blood thrums in his veins, and the Force tingles over his skin, frizzing, the fine hairs on his arms standing. Everything in him declaring the same thing: _It’s time. Tonight._ He’ll face that beckoning voice, chittering even now out in the woods, speak to it, learn what it wants of him. Maybe walk away. Maybe.

Armitage flings one hand out towards him, groping blindly for his wrist and, finding it, squeezing. It’s not a conscious gesture. His eyes are still closed, his exhalations still slow, gentle, his sleeping thoughts blurry. How many times he must have done exactly this over these past months. Or wrapped around him and murmured, _It’s okay, you’re okay_. How many times he’s done the same in return. Ben strokes his cheek, soothing, encouraging his dreams towards water and sunshine. Another habit now. He leans down to kiss his temple before disentangling himself. In the weeks since they camped out by the lake, their conversations have been a jumble of plans, ideas. Where they could go, what they might do. “We will,” Ben promises him softly, before moving to get dressed. He tugs on his boots, clips his lightsaber to his belt. Pauses to study the tracker Armitage made for him for nights like this. Leaves it blinking on the desk.

The castle is all but silent as he descends the stairs, and he’s surrounded by the muted midnight thoughts of the sentients sleeping in the rooms around him. It’s familiar by now, this journey, repeated often enough since their first night here, although it feels different tonight. Something heavy under his lungs as he crosses the ground floor.

He feels a presence just before he sees—not Maz, as he might have expected, but his father sitting at one of the empty sabacc tables, cleaning his blaster, piece by piece, with a rag. Han’s motions are practiced, nearly casual, and he looks up to meet Ben’s eyes across the room without faltering. “Hey, kiddo,” he calls, voice quiet but carrying.

He stands, staring, understanding two facts at once: he was waiting for him, yes, but that this also isn’t the first time he’s done this here. Stayed awake with a blaster in his hand. “Hey, Dad.”

“C’mere, huh?” When Ben does, he says, “Maz mentioned you go off sometimes to, uh. Talk with those ghosts of yours.”

“Anakin,” he agrees. He doesn’t call him ‘grandfather.’ Hasn’t. “It’s part of how I’m learning.”

Han grunts. He studies the barrel of his blaster. It’s already spotless, but he drags the cloth over it again. “You figure it’s helping?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I like the practice.” He indicates his lightsaber. “And it’s good, I guess, to hear more about him. What happened.”

His father nods, considering this, still looking at his gun. Then he meets Ben’s gaze; his own is uncharacteristically grave. “You’re your own person, though. You get that, right? You make your choices and don’t let anybody tell you different, whoever they are. Not even me. Not even Mom.”

“Not even Mom?” He raises his eyebrows, affecting shock.

“Well, maybe Mom.” Some of his usual humor comes back into his face, briefly. “I mean it, though. Don’t forget it.”

Ben matches his smile, although he can feel it wavering. His eyes sting. “I won’t, I promise.”

Han lets out a breath, his shoulders falling. He reaches over to pat his arm. “You’re a good kid, Ben. No matter what happens, okay?”

“Okay.” Understanding this as a _go on now_ , he starts for the door again. Pauses. Turns. “Hey, Dad?”

He lifts his head; his hands are still working, reassembling the blaster. “Yeah?”

“How’d you—why are you down here?” 

“Oh, no reason.” Finished, Han rests his gun against the table, easy. His eyes glimmer in the dark. “Just a feeling.”

He’s not unfamiliar with his father’s feelings; _gut_ _instinct_ , he’s called it before. Or, on more than one occasion, he told Ben:  _parents don’t need the Force_. He wonders, as he sometimes has, how much Han knows. How he knows it. _If I don’t come back_ , he could say now and confess what he thinks he’s facing. _If something happens_. _If I go—_ But there’s something of that already in the way his father’s looking at him. Some awareness. Ben ducks his head, lets his hair fall over his face, hiding the threatening tears. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

 

* * *

 

Anakin is waiting for him in the clearing; he appears sharper, clearer somehow tonight, and the folds of his robes almost seem to shift in the wind. He’s wearing his older face, a middle-aged man with somber, haunted eyes, although occasionally there’s a flicker of longer hair, a fresher scar splitting the side of his face. The cold spot waits in the trees beyond him, where the Dark has sunk deep into the earth; the voice is demanding his attention, growing louder as he approaches, tugging at his consciousness. It isn’t like the first night when Ben followed the pull of Anakin’s lightsaber, that dreamlike half-awareness. No, he’s completely awake now. He takes a step forward.

The ghost moves between him and the trees, stopping him. “Trust me, nothing good ever came of rushing off into the dark,” he says. “Walk with me?”

Ben does; the long grass brushes the tops of his boots. The moon shines down, brilliant, full, unrelenting. There are the usual sounds: chirping frogs, the rustling leaves, his own quiet footsteps. The Force in and under all of it. Everything accustomed, known. But there’s a finality to it he’s never felt before, something new approaching.

“I think of your grandmother on nights like this,” Anakin tells him. “On Naboo, we’d go down to the water in the dark. Those were some of our best times. We could pretend the rest of the Galaxy didn’t exist. That was foolish.” He stops, as though considering what to say. “I don’t regret it, you understand. Loving her—that wasn’t the mistake.”

Ben waits. For now, he can hold onto Anakin’s hollow voice, seize it above the clamor of everything else, everything that’s calling him to the trees.

“You’re a little like her.” It’s the closest he’s seen to a genuine smile on his face. “Luke reminded me of her, too.”

It’s a challenge not to wince. “I don’t think I’m very much like Luke, to be honest.” Even when they had been close, when Luke was his teacher and Ben his first real student, long before he felt the truth of Luke’s doubt in him, his fear of him, he’d felt unequal to his uncle’s legend. He’d defeated Lord Vader and the Emperor, after all. Saved the whole kriffing Galaxy. Brought the Jedi back from near-extinction. _I don’t know who I’m like_ , he doesn’t say. 

 _You do know_ , the chilled voice whispers. _You know_.

“Did he ever tell you how he succeeded in the end? I suppose he couldn’t have, not without telling you who I was. It wasn’t with his lightsaber.” 

The vision hits him like a blow: _Luke, his face twisted in pain_ , _begging for his father’s mercy_. _Anakin’s agony at seeing him that way, driving him to act. How the lightning had lanced through him when he did, burning, burning, burning_. Ben staggers and sucks in a breath, coming back to himself. “Please, I don’t—I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do? Be like Luke? Grandmother?” That doesn’t do him any good. More examples he can never live up to.

Anakin shakes his head. “It will never be that simple. I think you sense that.”

 _Why_ can’t _something be that simple, Ben_ wants to shout at him. Wants to demand clearer answers, a path forward. _Tell me what to do_ , he could insist. _Tell me how to resist it._ But he won’t.

“Wanting it to be easy,” he says. Staring now, with Ben, out into the trees. “That was my failing. Everything I didn’t understand frightened me. Everything I couldn’t control. I thought if I was powerful enough, if I knew enough, it wouldn’t matter. I could fix it. And in the end, she died because of that.” He turns to look at him now, those fathomless eyes, dim in his glowing face. Brings a hand up to his shoulder, that not-quite touch. “No one has all the answers, Ben. And if they tell you they do, they’re lying.”

He turns, then, back to the clearing, and Ben follows his gaze. A crowd of ghosts has gathered under the moonlight; some of them he recognizes as the opponents Anakin conjured for him to spar, memories and echoes. Others are firmer, clearer, although still glowing, still insubstantial. Two bearded men, their faces guarded, wearing Jedi robes, the robes of the Old Republic. A small, wizened sentient regards him with large, weary eyes. Lastly, a Togruta woman emerges from the crowd, her twin montrals with their distinct striations curving high above her brow. Two spectral lightsabers hang from her belt. She exchanges an inscrutable look with Anakin before beckoning to Ben, indicating he should follow her. 

He spares one glance back at Anakin before complying. The ghosts part as they pass, their faces grim, watching. Their apprehension clear— _about_ him.

“Right,” Ben mutters. “No pressure.”

Unspeaking, the Togruta woman takes him deep into the woods, although he doesn’t need a guide, not after these months on Takodana, constantly aware of this very spot. The cave’s entrance is little more than a jagged crack splitting the earth, the ground blackened and dead around it. But it doesn’t surprise him that nothing grows here, that there’s a thick mist creeping up from the ground. It’s how he’s dreamed of this place, where the voice lives. A wound that never healed. He stands at the edge of it with this last ghost, peering into it. His head’s gone strangely silent now that he’s here. Maybe it’s not worried he’ll change his mind.

“ _Can_ I turn back?” he asks. Feeling his unwillingness even before he does. He can’t leave Takodana without answers, not after all this. _That’s mad_ , Armitage would say, _of course you can leave_. But he needs to know. 

The Togruta smiles at him and shakes her head, although not, he thinks, in answer to his question. She reaches over to ruffle his hair, fond. She can’t actually touch him, of course, although it’s like cool air on his brow, soothing. Then, she’s gone, and he’s alone in the woods.

He steps into the hollow place, finding slick stone under his feet; the mist swirls, disturbed by his motion. Far off, there’s the sound of water trickling. The walls of the cave bead with moisture. The temperature drops as he advances, the chill cutting through his shirt. It’s getting darker, but he can see enough to continue, the way faintly illuminated by sickly, greenish fungi growing along the walls and ceiling. He can feel the age of the place in his palms, the soles of his feet. It’s older even than the trees, regrown after some long-ago battle.

 _The Sith and Jedi_ , the voice supplies, oily with pleasure. _We fought all across these hills_. 

“And you’ve been here ever since.” Ben can’t see it yet—if there is something _to_ see—but he can feel it, gliding along beside him.

_The earth remembers. It cannot forget me. My name is carved into its very marrow._

“Funny, _I’ve_ never heard of you.”

An icy hand drifts over his face. _You will come to know me well enough, Ben Solo_. _And I you._

He turns sharply, seeking, but finds nothing. It’s tempting to draw his lightsaber, but he leaves it on his belt. “Not interested, sorry.”

 _Lies_ , it snaps. Cold as it is, there’s something rank, musty about the breath on his cheek. _Why else have you come?_

“Maybe I was curious.” It isn’t only that, if he’s honest. He’d needed Luke before, to deal with Snoke, and even then, they hadn’t completely succeeded. If he has another chance, maybe, if he can prove something here— “You said you had secrets.”

 _Such secrets, young one_ , it lilts. _You cannot dream of all the Dark can show you. All it can give you_.

Snoke had said much the same, had promised him everything. But not without cost. “And what do you want in return?” The path curves in front of him, massive stalagmites jut like crooked fangs on either side; up ahead, he thinks he can see the entrance to something else, a larger chamber. “Dad always says information never comes for free.”

_A small price. Your devotion. Your ability. Your life._

Ben laughs; the sound echoes far into the cave. “Oh, is that all?” 

 _You are strong with the Force. Together, we could accomplish magnificent things. You would not want. You would not fear_. _You would—_

“Be more powerful than ever. I’ve heard that before,” Ben interrupts. He creeps into the cavern beyond the path, hugging the wall, wary of a sudden drop. Or worse. 

_The pretender you call Snoke is nothing compared to the old Masters. The Sith hold the true secrets of the Dark. We can teach you as he never could. Show you mysteries long buried. Unearth our greatest warriors to guide you._

He stumbles slightly on the path, the stone going uneven, and catches himself against the wall, scraping his hand. “ _Kriff_ ,” he hisses under his breath. “What if I don’t want power? What if I don’t need magnificent things?” He’s hanging onto a different vision: kissing Armitage in the sunlight. Blue tile on the kitchen wall. They could be close to it now, wherever they’re going next.

The voice pauses, as though considering. _All beings want_ , it says, sounding vaguely sulky. _All beings desire more power_. _An end to fear. To uncertainty._

Ben squints. A shadow looms farther on, crouched in the mist. His hand goes to his lightsaber. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take my chances on my own.”

_But what of your parents? Would you not see their fates? Would you not protect them if you could? And your—Armitage? You would protect him, wouldn’t you? He is not safe, you know. And he won’t be._

It has the cadence of a threat, a promise. He draws his weapon now, baring his teeth, anger flaring hot in his chest. “Say his name again, and I swear to every god on every world I’ll carve up whatever’s left of you.”

 _There you are, Ben Solo. Such exquisite rage._ It laughs, the sound of it like rattling bones, cracking ice, the deep groaning of the earth. It reverberates all around him, almost so loudly he has to cover his ears. Instead, he shuts his eyes, breathing through it, reaching for the Force, and it is _Dark_ here _, death and destruction and decay_ , but he can find his own center, shining. Not untouched by the shadows or doubt, both running through it, but it’s his. He’s him. He exhales. The kyber in his saber hums, and that’s his one warning before the shadow falls on him, its blade bleeding red.

Ben brings up his own weapon, igniting it and parrying in one move, and forcing it back and away. It springs away and then towards him again, slashing at him. He can see nothing of its face or form, only a drawn hood, rags. He fends off one blow, then another, not attacking. Blocking.

 _Give in_ , it rasps. Still not aloud, its voice like gravel in his mind. _This is who you’re meant to be_.

“The way I see it,” Ben tells it, knocking aside another swing. “I don’t really know who I am yet.”

 _You’re ours._ It strikes, sweeping low, at his knees, and he leaps back to avoid it, struggling to keep his balance. _The Light has its chosen champion, and it isn’t you. Therefore, you belong to the Dark. That’s how it must be._

He sees it again, Luke’s—Anakin’s—lightsaber coming down, catching him across the face. He falls backward into the snow. Has the briefest glimpse of his opponent standing over him. A girl, not much older than he is now. “That’s not me. That won’t happen now.”

 _It will. You have a destiny_. 

“No such thing,” he tells it, hurrying to block another blow. Then another. It’s herding him, he realizes, towards the center of the room, and he struggles to press it back, to hold his ground, not wanting to find whatever it’s pushing him towards. “That’s just something people say.”

 _The Force wills it. Balance. The Light and the Dark. The Jedi and the Sith._ Its lightsaber hums in a fiery arc, streaking through the air. 

Ben stops it with his own and _shoves_ , sending his attacker stumbling away. “You’re wrong. There’s so much more to the Force than the Jedi and the Sith.” He brings his own blade down, slicing his attacker in two. The two empty halves of its cloak flutter to the ground.

He stands, breathing hard for a moment, before leaning over to prod the tattered fabric, searching and finding nothing there, only rotten cloth. As he does, the shadow flings itself from the mist, falling on him and throwing him onto the cavern floor. His lightsaber spins away from him, knocked out of his hand. Ben grapples with the figure attacking him. Now, _now_ , he can see its face, or what’s left of it, little more than a skull’s rictus, bits of leathery flesh clinging to the bone, its teeth snapping at him, a blackened, desiccated tongue lashing behind them. Its hands, skeletal, freezing, clutch at his tunic, his throat, and he struggles to hold it at bay. Finally gets his boot up and between them and kicks it back into the gloom. It falls away with a shriek, louder, and then more distant.

Ben lies prone, waiting, gasping. Pulls his lightsaber to his hand and climbs, unsteadily, to his feet before shuffling forward. Cautious. At the center of the cavern, he finds it: the pit. The thick smell of burnt flesh drifts up from it like smoke. He doesn’t want to see. Can’t help looking. His lightsaber illuminates them: the pile of bodies at the bottom. He knows them, recognizes the homespun robes. Their small, upturned faces. Their glassy, blank eyes staring at him, accusing. All still, so still. Scorch marks on them. He turns to the side to retch, his stomach heaving, bile burning his throat as it rises. _That’s who you are_ , the voice murmurs. Far fainter now. Weak. _Who you’ll be._

Ben drags the back of his hand over his mouth and shakes his head hard. Moans. “No. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

It doesn’t respond.

He waits, shuddering, before daring another look over the edge. The pit is black, seemingly endless, churning with mist. He staggers away from it.

There, in the blue glow of his blade, he sees it. A small, shabby bundle the far end of the cave. A body. Humanoid, if not human. It’s little more than a crumbling stack of bones. Almost nothing. There’s the temptation to kick it over, to drive his lightsaber through it, seize that bitter satisfaction. Ben reaches out to touch it instead—with the Force as well. At the well of energy, it disintegrates completely, falling away to dust. 

Around him, something sighs, or else there’s a gust of fresh air, the first in centuries, carrying away the scent of death.

 

* * *

 

The clearing is empty, abandoned, when he limps his way back to it; the stars have begun to fade above him, the sky lightening to violet, the moon sinking back below the trees. No trace of the ghosts remains, not Anakin or any of the others. It’s quiet in the Force, too. Settled. A tiny figure is waiting for him on the path, however. Maz smiles up at him. A weary sort of smile, the kind he’s never seen from her before. All of her thousand years in it. “I told you so,” she says. Although not to him, he’s nearly certain.

No, to him, she holds out a familiar silvery cylinder. “This isn’t mine,” Ben says, frowning, not taking it. “It’s not for me.” 

“No,” she agrees. “But I think you should carry it for a while. See that it gets where it’s going. While you get where you’re going.” She offers it again, undeterred by his hesitation.

He reluctantly accepts Anakin’s lightsaber and hangs it on his belt next to his own. Falls in step next to Maz. The two of them amble down the hill towards her castle, not rushing. Her energy is warm and soothing in the Force, like a balm, like the sunlight that will come over the horizon not long from now. “And where is that? Where I’m going?”

She tuts at him “You know that is for you and only you to say, Ben Solo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Ben faces off against the voice in the woods and ends up in a physical fight with it. It also attacks him psychologically. In particular, he's confronted with Kylo's actions from the canon timeline, namely the murder of the other Padawans at the Temple. There is a non-graphic description of the bodies of children; however, it's only a vision. Ben is subsequently ill (brief mention of vomiting).
> 
> Also, Ben and Armitage get a little more intimate in this chapter. There are no sexually graphic descriptions, and it's up to the reader's interpretation how far they go.
> 
> —
> 
> The last chapter will be available shortly. Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> ([Say hi on Twitter!](http://twitter.com/callmelyss1))


	6. Armitage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage prepares to leave Takodana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be mindful of the new tags for this chapter. I've added some explanations and reassurances in the end notes, but they do also contain spoilers.
> 
> The fantastic chapter art, once again, is by [xylavie](https://twitter.com/xylavie).

“So the Core, huh?” WAC-94 asks. Their front half sits perched on a crate while Armitage adjusts the hydraulics in their legs. “That’ll be a switch.”

“Hm?” he asks, not quite listening. It’s a finicky job, changing out the fluid, more so since he rigged the siphon himself; not as many of his tools are improvised as they were when he arrived, but this one is. Finally, though, the pump begins to work, chugging as it replaces the old solution with the new. “Oh. Yes. At least to start.” True to his word, Ben has taken his preferences into account, asking more than once what he thinks, but it seemed reasonable to go to Chandrila first and consider their next steps. Although he would very much like to see Kashyyyk someday. 

“You don’t sound too excited. Nervous?” The small droid cocks their head.

Armitage doesn’t answer immediately. He checks the level on the new hydraulic fluid—yes, about right—switches off the device, and seals the circulation tubing. WAC-94 doesn’t press him, although they’re watching him as he carries their legs over to reattach. “It’s, ah. It’s complicated,” he murmurs. There’s perhaps nothing he wants more than to follow Ben Solo to wherever he likes across the charted systems, to set foot on worlds he’s only read about, to see civilization’s greatest technological feats from the Galactic City's 5,127 levels to the shipyards at Kuat. But there is and likely will always be the question of his past, the Order, and the price on his head. 

(He’d meant to tell Ben, he had. But he'd looked at him so softly, so hesitantly when he asked if Armitage would go with him. And he couldn’t—not then. Not when he could kiss him instead. Had been all but trembling with the need to do so.) 

“The Galaxy always is,” WAC-94 says, not without sympathy. 

“I guess that's true.” He tightens a bolt. “There. How’s it feel?”

They jump down off the crate, testing out the range of motion, pacing around him. “Stars, yes, that’s much better, thank you. I gotta say we’re gonna miss you around these parts, Red. You have a gifted touch. Not just for an organic.”

Armitage takes their offered hand and shakes it. “Safe journey wherever you’re headed next.”

“And to you.”

He surveys his makeshift workshop: the scarred bench and dusty crates he dragged in, his tools hung on the wall, goggles, apron, rags, and spare parts. After, nearly ten months of work here, it’s stopped seeming temporary. Started to look lived-in, like their room upstairs. Like the castle itself. It hadn’t been like that in the barrack room, the rows of identical cots, all of it interchangeable down to their uniforms, passed to the next cadet when they outgrew them. Nothing that was theirs. Twenty-five lashes for keepsakes, but they called it _hoarding_. He slips a hand into his pocket to trace the kyber; it warms and hums pleasantly at his touch. 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental on us, little tinkerer,” Maz says from the doorway. Her eyes twinkle behind her thick lenses. 

Armitage doesn’t startle. He was halfway expecting her, he thinks, even if he can’t explain why. “I thought I’d leave most of this if you don’t mind,” he says. Not answering her. “It can be a service station for droids passing through.” Even without a mechanic, it’s useful.

“That sounds like a fine idea.” She comes to stand next to him, a knowing smile on her face. Always so knowing.

He adjusts a spanner on the wall. “I updated the matrices on the games tables one last time. The holodarts should stop slipping now.” 

“Thank you, Red.” 

“And the speeders. I thought you could rent them out if you wanted. Or they’d be okay for towing cargo—“ He’s studying his boots, aware his cheeks and neck are flushed, his eyes prickling. And he doesn’t think he has the words to tell her, that he will dream of this place, of the water and the trees and the sunlight. Yellow stone. Music. That he will think of it, the bustling castle and its guests and these tools in his hands and that unique pleasure of making something work that wasn’t. He has that going forward and will have it.

“Armitage,” is all Maz says. Her voice warm with its particular kindness, of the sort that tells a fallen child to pick themselves up and try again. Not coddling. Never that.

He sighs and hangs his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, more to the castle wall than to her. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She pats him on the arm, that gesture grown familiar, too. Her touch gentle. The collection of bracelets on her wrist chime as they move and resettle. “You’re going to go and live your life; that’s what you’re going to do. You and Ben Solo both.”

“Ben,” he echoes, voice going thick, and he huffs, not a laugh. “Ben doesn’t understand what he’s offering. What he’s risking.” He _did_ —he wanted to tell him about the bounty, about what he fears may happen, and even, finally, the truth about the Commandant, but there have been those excited whispers instead, have been plans and dreams of the sort he never imagined for himself. All of that more so since Ben came back from the woods that last time, when he looked so much _easier_ , more peaceful than he has maybe since Armitage has known him. How could he ruin that?

“He understands enough. You showed him, and he offered anyway,” Maz reminds him. “And you can tell him the rest. It won’t change anything.”

“What if it did?” Armitage turns to look at her, sharply. “What if he—what if they all decide it’s too much trouble? What if he gets tired of not being able to go where he wants because it might not be safe?” And he has been, he knows, so dependent on those kindnesses from the start. Ben’s and Captain Solo’s. Maz’s and Chewbacca’s. Without them, he could very well be on a bounty hunter’s ship on his way back to the Unknown Regions. Or worse.

Maz tilts her face up, regarding him, and taps the magnification on her goggles a few times, her eyes going huge, distorted, behind the glass. “You are a very bright boy,” she says, after a moment’s consideration. “And that is one of the most foolish things I’ve heard in a thousand years.” She waves off his protest. “No, you listen now. Even if that _were_ to happen, if tomorrow Ben and Han Solo and Chewbacca all abandoned you on the next space station, after everything, unlikely as that is. Even if that happened, you would manage, would you not? Perhaps thrive? You have credits and an identicard, do you not? Work to do—work you do very well? Indeed, work I could not _keep_ you from doing despite my best efforts. Is that not the case?” 

He stares back at her, stunned. “I. I suppose.“ 

“You do not suppose. You know it to be true.” Her voice softens to a murmur. “There is enough to fear in the universe without adding new shadows, young one. You’re not the friendless child who ran away from that place. Not anymore.”

His face warms again, hotter this time. “I didn’t mean to—I’m not ungrateful.”

“Hush.” Maz squeezes his wrist before releasing him. “No one could accuse you of that. You have good reason to be afraid, yes. A bounty is a heavy burden to bear, even for someone ten times your age. But remember that you do not carry it alone.”

“A bounty? What bounty?” a new voice interrupts behind them. 

Ben.

 _Kriff_.

He’s looking between them, confused, hurt already flashing in his eyes. Armitage takes a step towards him, lifting a hand. “I can explain.”

“ _On you?_ ” Ben asks. Too many emotions to track cross his face, anger and bewilderment among them. “But they said it wasn’t—there _wasn’t_. You all said. We were just unlucky.”

Armitage shakes his head. “They didn’t want us to know. They tried to take care of it for us.” And he still doesn’t _like_ that, although he doesn’t have to, he understands. They, Maz and Captain Solo and Chewbacca, made that decision for them.

“We thought it for the best,” Maz adds. Not without regret.

“You mean you thought it was better to lie. Right. I can guess who came up with that plan.” Ben says, before returning his attention to Armitage. “But _you_ know, too—how do you know? How long have you known?” He doesn’t ask, _Why didn’t you tell me?_ But it’s there anyway, in his expression, his tone, the spasm of his fists at his sides.

He swallows, hard. Reluctantly admits: “Since Qualto.”

Ben utters a short, harsh curse in a language Armitage doesn’t recognize, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

 

* * *

 

“ _Ben_. Ben, wait,” Armitage repeats, hurrying after him, only just succeeding at keeping up, despite their near-even strides. They’re well into the trees now. Have left the fortress and the lake and the setting sun behind. It’s getting dark. “ _Please_.” 

He isn’t sure if the plaintive sound of his voice reaches him, or if he’s tiring, but Ben slows and turns, finally, wheeling on him. “I don’t understand,” he says. Raw. “I thought you trusted me.”

It aches, deep in his chest, the idea he could question that _now_ , after the shared memories and the confessions under the blankets and everything else he’s offered, shown him without hesitation, what he wouldn’t have told another breathing being, even if coerced, even if he had no other choice. _Isn’t it obvious that I do_ , he wants to say. _How could you not know that. Why do I have to say it._ “I do,” Armitage insists, “I do. I trust you. And I wanted to tell you, believe me.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” Ben scowls and crosses his arms. “You and my father and Maz, what, you thought I couldn’t handle it? That I’d go off again?”

If anything, he’d resented it, the position they put him in, between the truth and Ben, Ben who hates lies more than anything. “No, that isn’t—“

“Then what?”

“I was karking _scared_ , Ben!” he shouts, louder than he intends. “I didn’t know what to do, all right? I still don’t know what to do. I feel like any minute all of this could get that taken away, and that scares the shit out of me. _Kriff_.” He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, glad for the falling night, hoping it hides the expression on his face. “You’re all I have. I didn’t want you to do something reckless and get hurt because of me.”

“Oh.” His glare softens, albeit slightly, although his posture stays defensive. Even in the dark, there’s no mistaking the way his lower lip is protruding, or that his feelings are still wounded. “But you think I’d do something reckless.”

“Maybe.” Armitage toes the dirt with his boot, avoiding his gaze. “You did punch a bounty hunter in the face, remember.”

“So did you!” Ben accuses. “And I didn’t know he had a bounty on you.” He goes silent for a long moment before adding, musing, “But if I had, I might have hit him harder.”

Armitage risks a look up and returns his small smile, recognizing his own hesitation reflected back at him. “I did mean to tell you,” he says. “It’s just. It’s—“

“It’s a lot, all of this,” he agrees, sparing him. “Everything that’s happened. Everything that might happen.”

“Yeah.” He almost whispers as he confides, “It doesn’t quite seem real.” The idea that he might have this, choose this, all that they’ve talked about these last weeks, some of it peculiarly mundane, like where to live, in a flat or with Ben’s family. Groceries. Maybe university.

“I get it. But it is, or I think it can be.” Ben sighs; his shoulders sag. Acquiescing. He starts walking again, slower now, back towards the fortress’s lights, distant through the trees, and Armitage falls into step with him, not talking. The silence this time is calmer, gentler. He doesn’t quite grab his hand, brushing their knuckles together instead, but it’s enough that they both relax, that reassurance bouncing between them. 

They’re not yet halfway back when Ben stops, cocking his head, listening, and signals for Armitage to wait. “What—?”

It’s the only warning they get before the blaster bolt cuts through the woods, striking the tree next to them in a shower of sparks and smoke. 

The two of them tumble to the ground and out of the way; another shot flies over their heads, and Armitage scrambles through the underbrush with Ben. Dirt and dead leaves slip under his hands, but he manages, they both manage to crawl around the side of a large tree, bracing their backs against the trunk and gasping for air. “The hells,” Ben mutters, although there’s no question in it. Nor in the way he looks at Armitage, wide-eyed with understanding. More blaster fire ricochets behind them. Not trying to hit them, he realizes, but to flush them out.

“There are eight, or, no, ten of them,” Ben tells him. His eyes are closed, concentrating. “Coming from that way.” He gestures in the direction of the fortress.

Between them and safety, then. Or relative safety. Armitage peeks around the side of the tree trunk. “There’s a shuttle,” he murmurs. An old Lambda-class command shuttle, its three wings distinctive even in the dark. And maybe, true, a bounty hunter might have salvaged one, but likelier, almost certainly that means—“They’re. They’re from the Order.”

It’s gone worryingly quiet, and he can picture the advance towards them, that semi-circular formation, exactly how they were drilled. Eventually, they’ll come up on either side. Eventually. 

“Okay,” Ben says. He draws his lightsaber from his belt. “We just need to get past them. We make a gap and we run. Stay behind me, all right?”

A twig snaps, not ten meters from them. Armitage’s breath catches; he wills his pulse to slow. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, okay.”

He does grab his hand, squeezing once, before they’re in motion, slipping out from their hiding place. All at once, the air is bright with blaster fire and the distinct blue glow of Ben’s plasma weapon, flashing as he deflects the shots with the blade. One hits wide above their heads, and Armitage flinches, crouching down behind Ben’s shoulder. Through the smoke and gloom, he can see them advancing through the trees. Not, he thinks, in uniform, but he recognizes the way they’re moving, synchronous and precise, and his father’s influence in that. 

The two of them press on, and Ben raises his hand, halting the next volley in midair, to the surprise of their attackers. He’s trembling next to Armitage with the effort of it, and the two of them scramble forward while the beams strike the earth harmlessly behind them. All the same, it’s too much, he thinks, too many for Ben to handle all on his own; he’s almost frantic as he deflects the shots, the two of them only spared by the particular firing pattern their assailants are using, but if they alter it, or—and are there more of them coming through the trees on either side?

One blaster and then another flies out of their attackers’ hands and wing through the air towards him. Startled, Armitage catches them easily, staring down at the weapons.

“A little help?” Ben calls.

He shakes himself into action, bracing his shoulder against Ben’s and firing at the nearest of their opponents without thinking, catching the man squarely in the sternum. He goes down in a heap, slumped, not flung backward by the power or proximity of the blast. Armitage studies the blaster again: the standard issue model for the Order and no surprise. But it’s set to _stun_.

Set to stun. _Dead or alive_ , the bounty had said, he can see it clearly declared in Aurebesh. _Dead or alive_. The Commandant wouldn’t care if they—and he takes in the scene again. Over a dozen soldiers dispatched. A command shuttle, easily recognizable, _obvious_ even. They wouldn’t do that, not for him, not for one runaway, no matter whose son he is. They’d rather deal with him discreetly, he knows, and they wouldn’t bother trying to take him alive, not with this much trouble. Comprehension slams under his lungs, and, feeling numb, he almost drops the blasters. (Although doesn’t, shooting another attacker on Ben’s other side, hitting her dead center. She collapses.)

They’re not here for him, Armitage realizes. 

Which means. 

It means.

“All right back there?” Ben asks. Tense against him, his shoulders heaving as he breathes.

He doesn’t have time to explain, so he falls into this rhythm instead: shooting as Ben deflects and blocks the bolts coming at them, the two of them turning in step, shifting as the Order’s troops approach. It’s not like before, not like firing at targets, or like any simulation he’s ever completed, not with the sound of his blood throbbing in his ears, not with Ben’s back against his, nor the smell of smoke or the heat of the guns in his hands. Not _knowing,_ yes, the importance of each hit, one fewer person who can, who’s trying to, and they _can’t,_ he won’t allow it—There’s only this, only the next shot, only the soft exhale before he takes it. 

Eight of them approaching. Seven. Six. Five. Ben gestures sharply, and two of them going flying, the impact hard, unforgiving. Two. An errant shot goes wide, and before Armitage can shout, before he has a chance to warn him, it catches Ben under the ribs, and he drops next to him. His lightsaber goes dark and slips from his lax grip.

“Ben!” 

Pain bursts, bright, flaring across Armitage’s cheek. It wasn’t, he thinks, dazed, as he falls, a bolt, but the butt of a gun striking under his eye. When his vision clears, a man’s standing over him. He’s young, not so much older than he and Ben are, and blond under his cap. Narrow, pale eyes glint down at him. For all that he’s wearing plain clothes, a bounty hunter’s leathers and armor, it nonetheless looks like a uniform, and he like a soldier, his posture perfect. There’s something familiar about him, too. An older cadet—one of the Commandant’s. And the officer in charge. Probably a captain.

 _Do I still salute?_ Armitage wonders, his head swimming. A sound, not quite like a laugh, bubbles past his lips.

“Cuff him,” the captain orders of his remaining compatriot. “And get him to the shuttle.” Indicating Ben. He holds out a pair of magnacuffs—not ordinary ones, not durasteel but heavier, with something etched along the side that he can’t make out. 

“ _No_ ,” Armitage rasps. He means to shout it, but it comes out rough, quiet. He struggles upward. “No, let him go. You can—whatever you want. With me. I’ll come with you. But let him go.”

The captain plants a boot against his shoulder and pushes him back into the dirt. Hard. “No one’s asked us to bring you back, coward. You’re of no value.” He raises his blaster, and no question that it’s not set to stun now. “But I’ll give the Commandant your regards.”

The moment drags: the captain, sneering down at him, pulls the trigger, and there’s the whine of the blaster firing. Armitage raises his arms, ineffectual, against the pain that will surely come, imminent, burning, and final. Except it doesn’t. The shot doesn’t hit him. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them, staring down the blaster bolt wavering centimeters from his nose. The captain, above him, is held aloft and immobile, grabbed by an unseen hand, his expression pure shock. Armitage stares. The blaster bolt, glowing, warm, so close. The captain.

“ _Armie_ ,” Ben urges, sprawled next to him, both of his hands extended, sweat standing out on his pale face. All his attention’s focused, his eyes huge and dark. “I need you to move. Now.”

“Right, sorry.” He rolls out of the way, towards Ben, who clutches him with one arm as the shot strikes the earth next to them, spraying dirt. 

He flings the captain away with his other hand; there’s the dull thud of something fragile striking a tree, and then nothing. The two of them lie together, prone, and breathe. Smoke drifts above them through the woods. “Kriff,” Ben says finally into his hair, still hanging onto him, both of them shaking. “Are you okay?”

Armitage is grabbing his tunic with both hands. He can’t quite make himself let go yet. “I, yes. I’m all right. But—“

“Good.” He reaches out, calling his lightsaber back to his hand. “We should go. There might be more of them.”

“Probably,” he says. “But. Ben.”

“We need to get back to the fortress. It’ll be easier to keep you safe there. Can you walk?” He doesn’t wait for him to answer, dragging both of them to their feet together. He cradles his side, tender, where he was grazed. Even set to stun, the blast will leave a nasty bruise. 

“ _Ben_ ,” Armitage repeats and grabs his wrist, making him stop. “It’s not what you think—they're not here for me.”

“What?” He frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense. They were. Aren’t they? From the Order?”

“They are,” he says, slowly, and stoops to pick up the fallen magnacuffs. Shows him. “But they're not here for me. Not this time.”

Ben reaches to touch the characters inscribed along the side; they’re not Aurebesh. “But that looks like. I think that’s Sith. Ancient Sith.” He withdraws his hand quickly, shaking it, and frowns. “Why would they have those?” He meets Armitage’s eyes, and his expression shifts from confusion to comprehension, then horror. “But that’s. That would mean.”

“Snoke,” he says, as quietly as he can, as though they might be overheard. “And the Order. Searching for you.”

They stare at each other, recognizing this new reality, the truth of it. Neither of them is safe; neither of them has been. And this whole time—

There’s the distant sound of shouting. And blaster fire.

“The fortress,” Ben says, and they’re both running, as well as they can, towards Maz’s castle.

 

* * *

 

“Four ships,” Armitage whispers. “That’s at least fifty troops.”

They’re crouched in the green above the lake, looking down at the castle. They came across another Lambda-class shuttle in the trees, some sixty meters back, but it was empty. Likely the squad that found them hadn’t expected to, then, simply their good luck. Or bad, considering. The ships nearer Maz’s fortress aren’t recognizably Imperial, rustier and motley, pretending to be mercenary ships, but the soldiers leaving them are unmistakably that: soldiers. They’re escorting the residents of Maz’s castle out in straight lines through the torchlight, nudging them onward with blaster rifles. Maz herself turns to scowl at one, presumably giving him a lengthy dressing down, and he shoves her none too gently, shouting at her. Behind them, Chewbacca roars, and Han Solo puts a hand out, calming him. 

“I can’t believe they gave themselves up,” Ben says. “The walls of that place are a meter thick in places. They could have barricaded themselves for months. Why would they surrender?”

Armitage shakes his head. They’re gathering everyone in the clearing beyond the walls. “They surprised them probably. Took hostages. And—look.” It’s difficult to make out in the clouds above, but he can see the searchlights of a larger ship, possibly a bomber. “They could bring the place down on them with enough guns. Even Maz’s castle.”

“And now?” he asks. “They have them, but not us— _me_. What next?”

Cold, leaden weight sinks into Armitage’s stomach as the soldiers bring their captives to a halt, surrounding them with guns raised. At the center stands a man in a nondescript black coat, meant to be generic, civilian, although not so dissimilar from an officer’s greatcoat. Not, he sees with considerable relief, Brendol Hux. He would recognize the Commandant at this or any distance, he thinks. No, this man is taller, thinner, and most likely younger. Vital as it must be to find Ben and bring him to Snoke, the high command rarely goes into the field and never leaves the Unknown Regions, at least if the muttering among the favored cadets is to be believed. “They’ll interrogate them,” he says. 

Two of the soldiers drag Han Solo to the front, pulling him by both arms. He struggles half-heartedly, a token protest, almost certainly with some dry comment. Ben tenses, his hand going to his lightsaber. Armitage leans against him, pressing _I’m here, I’m with_ you into the touch, and holds his blasters tightly. He can’t hear the exchange between Captain Solo and the Order officer, although it goes on for a extended interval, the man in the black coat snapping questions and Ben’s father replying, shrugging, apparently unconcerned.

Until, that is, the officer raises his blaster and shoots him.

It happens both suddenly and interminably: the officer raises his gun and fires. Han Solo stumbles, then falls, clutching his stomach. Chewbacca bellows and charges. Armitage doesn’t know when his arms go around Ben, his hand firm over his mouth, muffling the wailed, “ _Dad!”_  It must have been automatic, but he doesn’t know when he moved, when he grabbed him and pulled him in close, muting the sound of it, his yell, against his palm. “ _No!”_ And Ben’s tears are dripping down his fingers, collecting against the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He’s shaking and screaming in Armitage’s grip.

“I know,” he’s saying, over and over in his ear, holding him. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so kriffing sorry, Ben. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I swear. I’m sorry.” He presses his wet face into his hair, still murmuring, not able to stop. “It’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Chewie’s there, see? He’s right there. He has him.”

There’s more shouting below them, the Order’s soldiers shoving the assembled sentients, forcing them onto their knees. One of them hits WAC-94 particularly roughly, and the little droid goes tumbling into the dirt, helpless. And he understands all at once what will happen next, as soon as they’re done asking questions, what they will have been directed to do, how so many of his simulations ended, that last task at the end of their hypothetical missions. No witnesses, he remembers. The Order can’t afford to be seen yet, and certainly not this close to civilization.

“Ben,” he urges now. “Ben, I need you to listen to me. They’re—they’re going to kill them if we don’t do something. All of them. We have to, I don’t know. We have to do something, Ben, and quickly.”

The boy in his arms shudders once, then harder, but he nods his understanding. When Armitage releases him, he says, “We need to distract them. Get them away from here.”

For a terrible second, he thinks Ben means to give himself up, but he turns and sees him looking, behind them. The shape of the Lambda shuttle is distinct through the trees. “We can’t outrun them in that,” he protests.

“No,” Ben agrees. “Not in that.”

 

* * *

 

“You sure this will work?” Ben’s standing in the shuttle cargo bay, keeping watch. 

Armitage has most of the shuttle’s guts and wiring spilled out in front of him; he’s halfway into the internal mechanics, elbow deep in the ship’s vital workings, pulling free the elements he needs. Most importantly, the fuel line, which should not, under any circumstances, be crossed with any other lines, one of spacecraft engineering’s most fundamental tenants. “Not at all,” he confesses. “I’ve never tried it before. But it’ll have to do. How is it out there?”

“I don’t think we have long.” His hand’s twitching towards his lightsaber again. “Maz is doing— _something_. She might be buying us time. But it’s not going to last.”

Armitage reconnects the wiring and scrambles for the controls, fingers skittering over the console, setting an autolaunch as fast as he can. Never mind the nav, he reminds himself, fighting to keep himself steady. The nav doesn’t matter at all. “Okay,” he says as the sequence begins, systems lighting up one by one. “We’d better go.”

“Go?”

“Go!” He grabs Ben by the hand as he flees the shuttle, running at full speed. All the same, they’re not wholly clear when the shuttle explodes; the blast throws them off their feet and onto the forest floor, the heat of it at their backs, ringing in their ears.

“Kriffing _shit_ ,” Ben exclaims. 

Not hurt, Armitage thinks, only staring over his shoulder at the fireball they’ve created. The roar of it nearly drowns out the shouts from beyond them. Nearly. They scramble to their feet, in motion again, away from the noise, making for one of the clearings beyond the castle. 

The _Falcon_ is as they left it earlier, mostly packed with the cargo for their departure tomorrow; a few un-stowed crates surround it, but there should be fuel, and it should be, Armitage prays to the Force and every deity, in working order. He sprints with Ben up the loading ramp, the two of them making for the cockpit.

“Please, please, Uncle Chewie, don’t have disconnected anything important,” Ben mutters, echoing his silent appeals as he slips into the pilot’s seat and begins to power up the ship, flicking switches and pulling levers in rapid succession. The _Falcon_ hums to life around them, the computer coming online, the engines rattling the durasteel under his feet. Armitage sinks into the co-pilot’s seat next to him, the two of them working in tandem, and then the ship is lifting into the air, sending up a cloud of dust below them.

It’s been the better part of a year since Armitage was on a ship, and he holds on tight as Ben brings them around low over the trees, taking the turn narrowly, their momentum swinging them around and forward. The _Falcon_ moves easily under Ben’s hands, as it did the last time he piloted it, and jets towards the fortress. “I’m going to need you to fire on their ships,” Ben says as they approach. “You okay with that?”

“Yes, I can—I can do that.” He snags a headset and making for the dorsal turret, climbing down the access ladder as fast as he can without slipping. He grabs hold of the gun’s controls, finding the triggers.

“Better hurry,” Ben calls, as they approach, and the ship takes a lurching dive towards Takodana’s surface. “The one above the castle’s spotted us.”

“Got it,” Armitage replies, and he does. He can see them: the mercenary ships nearest the castle. The soldiers are scattered, some having run towards the explosion in the woods. The others are struggling to keep the crowd contained—the officer in his long coat is nowhere in sight—but there aren’t enough of them to encircle them anymore, and Maz and her people are pressing them, pushing their advantage. And he, he can give them more of one. As the _Falcon_ comes around again, he sets the landed ships in his sights and fires, sending one up in a brilliant ball of flame. 

Ben whoops in his ear. “Nice shot!”

“Thanks,” he replies, although he’s focused, jaw locked, teeth gritted, concentrating on the other ship. The hull rattles around them, taking the impact of a blast. “Everything all right up there?”

“We've just made a friend, that’s all.” The ship pivots again, coming around the side of the castle. A shot misses and strikes the wall, sending a shower of sand and stone down. “ _Kriff_. You got that other ship?”

“Get me in range and I will,” Armitage says. He misses on the first volley and the second, struggling not to hit anyone below. They’re charging, he sees, Maz and the others, taking down their attackers, and blaster shots pepper the air. Whose he can’t entirely tell. He fires on the remaining ship once more, and this time it’s a direct hit; it explodes in a burst of fire and black smoke, going up at once. He cries out, vindicated, although his celebration’s cut short by another tremor running through the _Falcon_ , another missile absorbed by the shields. He scurries back up the ladder as Ben takes a hard turn, bringing them across the lake, skirting the water.

“Hi,” he says as Armitage drops into the seat next to him. “Good work. Are they following us?” Another shot sends the ship juddering around them. “Guess so.” 

“Shields sixty percent,” he reads. “Ben, we won't last long like this. And we have to get them away from here.”

“Yeah.” He brings them around the bend and back over the trees, the ship behind them keeping pace. “Yeah, you’re right. Hang on.”

Armitage does as he takes them into a sharp ascent, hurtling away from the trees and water below, leaving the castle to be defended by those on the ground. But a firefight on the planet could easily take the old structure down, and they could also be outgunned, even with the Order’s limited access to ships and weapons. Their pursuers keep pace with them as they speed away from the planet’s surface, the ship behind them breaking the atmosphere nearly the same time they do, the stars and immense emptiness between them greeting them when they leave the clouds. Ben takes the _Falcon_ in a narrow corkscrew, evading their fire successfully now, no bystanders to consider.

He leads them on a chase around Takodana’s moon, hugging the barren plains of it as their cannons send sprays of dust and rock up around them. Coming around the shadowed side, almost flipping the _Falcon_ in the process, he succeeds in getting behind their attackers, giving them a chance to fire their own missiles, striking the side of the ship. It’s a mid-sized fighter, he can see now, lightweight enough to keep pace with them, but not so small as to be flimsy or insufficiently armed. It comes around, absorbing a second hit, clearly intending to attack them again.

“What do we do?” Ben asks, evading them. Both of himself and Armitage. ““I don’t know if we can outfight them with only the two of us.”

Armitage studies the other craft, worrying his lower lip. “We can’t jump to hyperspace—they could go back to Takodana and finish what they started.”

“No,” he shakes his head. Stops. “But there is—there’s a trade route here, isn’t here? And a hyperpoint? A break in the lane?”

“Yes, that’s why people stop here.” 

“And you said they don’t want to be seen, right? No witnesses?”

He nods, frowning, not grasping where Ben’s going with this. “That’s right.”

“I have an idea.” 

He takes the _Falcon_ around again, circling the moon’s surface one more time before breaking away from it and Takodana. Not jumping to lightspeed, but making instead for the hyperpoint beyond the planet, deeper into the system. Ben weaves back and forth, missiles streaking green on either side of them. An alarm sounds on the console, signaling damage to the deflectors, and Armitage slaps at it, silencing it. _I'll fix you later_ , he promises. Up ahead, yes, he can see them:  _ships_. Big, round-bellied trading vessels with armed escorts—a necessity in this part of space. _Smugglers and pirates_ , he thinks, wryly.

They’re only a few parsecs away from the hyperpoint when the ship behind them drops out of pursuit, slowing and then stopping entirely, and Ben turns the Falcon in time for them to see their assailants blink away into hyperspace, as though they were never there at all.

“Kriff, _yes_ ,” Armitage exclaims when they’ve gone. He all but launches himself into the pilot’s seat, grabbing Ben’s face and kissing him soundly. “Ben Solo, you’re a genius.”

“Ha, thanks.” Ben sags back against the pilot’s seat, all the energy leaving him as he accepts his embrace, the kisses to his face and lips. His hands tremble when he touches Armitage. “We did it.”

 

* * *

 

“It doesn’t look like they’re coming back,” Ben says, walking into the _Falcon_ ’s common area, the Dejarik table and galley where they spent so much of their time those first few months. Armitage is curled up on the spare bunk, wrapped in a blanket and drinking tea, trying to keep the mug steady as he sips from it. Exhaustion has settled deep in his muscles, but he can’t quite calm himself yet. Not when. 

“Any other word?” he asks, voice hushed. He remembers the shot clearly, the way Captain Solo crumpled in the dust. The anguished sound Chewbacca made. That Ben made. They’re still well in range of Takodana, sheltering on the far side of its moon, but the frequency should be strong enough to carry news. If there’s news.

He shakes his head. Scrubs his eyes. “Not on any of the frequencies I know. Communications must be down. But he’s not. I’d feel it if he’d—”

“Right.” He swallows and sets aside his mug. “Let me have a look at your side.”

They check each other over thoroughly; Armitage applies a bacta patch to the livid mark under Ben’s ribs where the blaster bolt hit him. He smooths it neatly, tracing the edge along his skin to make sure it adheres properly, feeling, too, his lungs expand and contract under his hands, once and again. Strong. Steady. Ben applies a gel to his aching cheek, where the young captain struck him, his attention careful, gentle, the pads of his fingers stroking under the bruise, easing it. They take turns with the medscanner, searching for signs of concussion, broken bones, internal injuries. It’s all they can do right now, he understands, look after one another. When they’ve finished, Ben retrieves some ration bars from the galley, and they sit quietly, eating, although for once neither of them has much of an appetite.

“There’s one last thing you should know,” Armitage says at the same time Ben tells him, “We need to decide what to do.”

Ben studies him, thoughtful. “You go first.”

He lets out a wobbly breath. Reaches, automatic, towards the Order’s symbol carved into his arm. Although it’s seemed different since he encouraged Ben to feel it. Softer, dulled, somehow. Less stark. “It’s about the Commandant.”

“The officer who runs the Academy?” he asks, surprised. “What about him?”

“He’s the one who took the bounty out on me.” Armitage worries the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread, not meeting Ben’s eyes. “And maybe sent—I don’t know. He may have.” There are other officers who might be involved with Snoke, of course, with more authority, but the Commandant has always had a certain zeal where the Force is concerned. Or there were rumors, at least, of the old Academy on Arkanis and what was done there. Even so. What he does know, the unalterable truth: “Ben, he’s my father. Brendol Hux.”

It’s agony waiting for a reaction; he can feel the weight of Ben’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t dare look up, not when he might see disgust or horror in those eyes, usually so warm with affection. But he had to—he had to tell him, whatever the consequences. They’re sitting side-by-side on the bunk with that now easy, accustomed proximity, and Ben curls an arm around his waist, solid, and drags him closer, maneuvering him, both of them, until he’s being cradled against his chest, as he has been so many times on this ship. Armitage buries his face in Ben's tunic and exhales, ragged, relieved. There’s a familiar touch to his back, slow, soothing circles traced between his shoulder blades, and with them those impressions in the Force, sunshine and the sound of water and the smell of warm earth. More comforting than he can articulate. Although he can offer it back, too, all these months on Takodana soaked into him, and it’s long and wordless, this exchange between them.

“He may be your father,” Ben says eventually. His voice is quiet but sure. “But you belong here with us.”

He doesn’t know them, the words to respond, so he shifts closer, holds him more tightly instead, pushing all the gratitude he can into it. He can’t pull away to ask, his voice muffled, “Do you think we should go back?”

The hand on his back slows. “I don’t know,” Ben admits. “If we do, they might return and—“ _Finish what they started_ , he doesn't say.

“They might anyway,” Armitage points out, sitting up to look at him. Although he isn’t certain. Maybe, if they think he and Ben have gone. But they may only follow them somewhere else. It could keep happening, wherever they run to: Captain Solo collapsing in the dirt, Maz being shoved forward with a blaster rifle, WAC-94 knocked to the ground. Sentients, their friends, rounded up, simply for having met them. His fists clench.

“We could go to the Core,” Ben suggests, his head bowed. With none of the energy or hope he’s had when he mentioned it in recent weeks. “Mom would—she’d keep us safe. They couldn’t get to us there.”

“We could.” They would still be out there, however. The Order. Snoke. And no telling how long, if they’d always be out there. If the two of them would always be looking over their shoulders. _It seemed a poor exchange, your safety for your freedom_ , Maz had said, months ago, when he confronted her. It begins to settle in under his sternum, a sense of—resolution, he thinks. Conviction, perhaps. “Or we could go. Well, anywhere. Have them guessing where we are for as long as we can.”

Ben frowns. “What are you saying? We run and keep running?” 

Yes, he knows it’ll keep happening. Blood running down his arm, or someone else’s, another child’s. Ben lying prone, shot in the side, and they almost, they could have taken him. The Commandant watching him cooly from behind his desk, making it clear, so clear what he was meant to do, to be. The soldiers, the smell of smoke. The tidal breathing of the other cadets in the bunks, the whispers to get back to bed, hurry, they’re coming soon. Captain Solo, who’d patched him up on this ship, right here and taught him Corellian Spike, falling onto his knees. Maz with her peculiar kindness, treated that way, her home threatened. The Order will come for all of them in the end, that shadow spreading, always spreading, and Snoke with it. Ben won’t be safe. None of them will be safe.

He wanted it, the whole Galaxy, going wherever they chose, that future, everything Ben has offered. He still does.

“No,” Armitage says, firm, and shakes his head. “Not running. Not anymore.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the "ambiguous character fates" tag, I first want to point out what tags/warnings _aren't_ here, namely MCD. In the course of this chapter, however, Han is shot and, as far as Ben and Armitage know, gravely wounded. Because they don't know the extent of his injuries, neither do we, hence the tag. This and other aspects of the story are unresolved at the end of the story, although no one is hanging over a precipice, which is the reason for the "Mild Cliffhanger" warning. If you have other questions or concerns, please get in touch!
> 
> —
> 
> The Stranger That You Keep will return in July 2019 with the series conclusion, "To the Shipwrecks of Our Fathers." Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> ([Say hi on Twitter!](http://twitter.com/callmelyss1))


End file.
